The Famous Living Dead
by Adellade
Summary: COMPLETE; Sleepy Hollow/From Hell: AbxIch. In the background of his engagement, Constable Crane fell for a charming young Inspector from Whitechapel. One night, a terrifying face from the past forces a new incommode on him. Contains male/male and mpreg.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**

Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

A wispy mist hovered over the surface of the soil-lain ground, making the leafs tremble. Some of them even blew to scatter, catching in an updraft and dancing in an upward spiral, twisting around the winding tree trunk. Though humble in its appearance, behind the bark held inner meaning. A deep horror that lead to fire and flames, a black world unsung.

Hell.

Through the layers of bark, fine granules and blood resigned a land of unearthly moans, the cries of the damned and the uproar of raging hellfire. A loud roar announced itself loudly above the rest, a war cry so furious and enraged that it near struck the land silent. The source of the angered roar stared down at the once-occupied dress lying in his outstretched hands. Black, it was. Black with delicate lace trimmings. Only moments ago had the dress covered the body of a woman, a beautiful woman at that. His strikingly blue eyes scanned every inch of the garment, his white face etched with hostility. Blood smatters clung fresh to the dresses' lace, the body once living inside the dress completely having disintegrated into nothing.

The hessian slowly lowered the dress grimly, realising now that she had not made it. He began to silently seethe, at himself more than anything. It should have come naturally to him that a mere mortal woman would not have survived the passing through of the gates of hell, and now he was left here. Alone, with just a blood-smeared dress and afew strands of pale hair clinging to it. With a furious yell he flung the black dress into a roaring flame, watching with razor-sharp teeth gritted as the flames devoured it. Like the portal had devoured her. His plans were foiled, ruined.

She would have been so perfect. A strong headed, determined woman with little fear about her. A perfect specimen to bear his children. What worthy children they would have been too, but the hessian had to grimace as he was reminded that it was no longer to be. It was impossible for someone with no physcial being to have children, so he could have to remain childless.

.. No, not necasarily.

Even in life the german mercinary had a desire to have an heir, but his passion for massive slaughter and carnage had interjected. It had becoming his bloody lucrative, his thriving in life, and eventually it lead to his death. His buried pining never realised, and even now he could not help but entertain a faint possibility. The horseman glared ahead, thinking inside himself. The woman had seen defeat at the hand of another. Someone superior, someone with a level mind and a boldness to match. Whenever the hessian hunted, he had prevailed. Ever and always. Only once had be been foiled in his tracks, by this clever specimen. Seeing how the hessian had lost his first decision to this being, it seemed only fitting that they should take her rightful place. Such great attributes. The hessian began to smirk, ah .. yes .. perhaps all hope did not have to be abandoned after all.

Through the painful moans and the hissing spits of fire, a triumphant snarling yell bellowed throughout the black land of mist and brimstone smoke.

* * *


	2. New York

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

It was a clear morning, a bracing wind passing through New York. The streets were not the laiden with the bustling metropolis of people as they usually were, merely just some city-folk dotted around here and there on their way to their day to day avocations and endeavours. Residing just aside was a humble building with a glass display window and a wooden door that creaked when moved slightly by the outside breeze as it entered.

A boy with a scruff of dark hair stood beside a mannequin of a male torso, eyeing the stitched detail of the dark grey cardigan hanging off his shoulders. His own newish coat adding a sharpness to his boyish innocence. His company exceeded by a young lady stood merely a foot away from him, facing the counter. Thick, ringletted hair tumbling over her shoulders yet half pulled back by a pale ribbon, curling around her pale, pink-pinched cheeks. She waited, looking down at the young tailor sitting on a small stool behind the counter. Having not noticed the woman due to his attention being fully on a garment he was sewing. She soon coughed audibly, trying to make herself known. It worked a treat, the young man looking up beneath his corduroy cap.

'What'll it be, m'am?' He asked, leaving his half finished work behind and standing to his feet.

She smiled politely at him, hand rested on the strap of hand-sewn bag. 'Do you mend?'

'We do mend, yes'

'Great,' Her smile widened a fraction, quietly relieved. For hours they had been scouring the town for a tailor that mended, and only at this moment had their attempts proved fruitful. She reached a daint, pale hand into her bag, retrieving an airy white shirt. 'I should like for you to mend this.'

'May I?' The young tailor asked for the shirt, which the young woman dually handed to him. He fumbled with it for a moment, bringing his face down to close perspective, inspecting it. Soon enough he found the imperfection, poking almost his entire hand through a gap in the sleeve. He looked to the girl with a humoured grin on his face. 'Might I ask _how_ this happened?'

She shook her head, long hair shaking along with it. 'I don't even know myself.'

'It looks like a tear.'

'Then we may assume it has been torn.' She answered, deciding to repeat her question. 'Can you mend it?'

'Yes, of course m'am.' The tailor answered, folding the shirt over his arm. 'If you will return here tommorow I will have it ready.' He paused for a moment, looking down at the white garment hung over his arm. 'It is a man's shirt.'

'Yes, correct.' The lady answered simply.

The young man instantly looked a little embarassed for himself, 'Oh, no .. I'm sorry, I meant nothing.' He said, swallowing. 'I just assumed it was not the lads',' He glanced over at the boy on the far side of the room.

'The shirt belongs to my _fiance_.' She replied. 'He asked I have it mended while he worked.'

He nodded slowly, deciding to make small talk while he proceeded to fold the shirt neatly. 'Ah. So your fiance, where does his line of work reside if I might ask?'

'He is a constable.'

The young man's eyes glanced to her, the folding of the linen shirt slowing as he studied her. A familiarness striking true, 'Are you .. pardon me m'am, but .. are you miss Van Tassel?'

Her brow rose, 'I am yes, why?'

His smile was coy, 'Ah, well .. my father works alongside your fiance, Constable Crane.' He explained.

'Is that so?' Katrina said, smiling. 'And your father's name?'

'Constable Bridgeman, m'am.' He answered, 'I am Daugney Bridgeman.'

She nodded politely, the young man a sweet and smiling face. A pleasure to have come across in this new city, though he saw fit to add. 'He tells of his ways, his theories. Of science and sense. My father doesn't agree with it, m'am, but it does fascinate me so.'

'I shall tell Constable Crane he has an admirer,' Katrina said, taking this opportunity as her leave. 'I shall be back tommorow, Mr. Bridgeman.'

'Until tommorow, m'am.'

Katrina offered him a final nod of goodbye, then turned to beckon the boy away. 'Come, Masbeth. We shall be going now.'

* * *

Beneath the stretching branches of the cork trees and before the shimmering stretch of water, lay a gentle slope of grass running bare into a thick body of trees. The grass near the bank over shadowered by the towering branches, and strewn with a variety of human clothing. All rumpled in heaps and carelessly tossed, dull colours. Blacks, whites and browns. A hand shot out and snatched at his near shirt, pulling his arms through it and beginning to button it from the waist up, his fingers fumbling.

'What y'doin', Crane?' The man beside him asked, lifting himself to sit upright. Barely dressed and a thin layer of woven blanket covering him, a few leaves tangled into his dusky hair.

Ichabod was looking down at himself, moving onto the next button and frowning down, as if buttoning himself up with a struggle. 'I am getting dressed.'

'Why?'

He stopped, heaving a heavy sigh and looking at his lover, a look etched with commiseration. 'Please, do not ask me questions that you know the answer to.'

'Y'don't 'ave t'go.'

'Yes, I do.'

'I love you.'

Triumphant he was, silencing Ichabod where he was. He lowered his head, hating it when the card of ineffable feelings was used against him, especially having trouble sharing it into open air to those he did actually keep a fondness for. He leant pack, turning on his side and lying back beside him. 'I have to go.'

'I'm not a fuckin' mind reader, just cuz' you live inside your own head doesn't mean that everyone lookin' in knows whats in there with ye'.' He replied in his thick London tongue, not angry or bitter, but simply. 'If I went back t'Whitechapel, would y'miss me?'

'Yes, Abberline. I would.'

The Inspector shifted an inch closer to him, 'Would you'?'

'Yes .. '

Bringing his lips tantalizingly close to the constable's mouth, he made sure he did nothing more than tease the soft, rosebud lips' skin. His breath lightly felt, 'How much? 'Ow much would y'miss me .. ?'

Ichabod parted his lips, breathing out himself. 'So much .. '

It was reasonable to imagine that their lips had met and lingered, then parted unhurriedly as he welcomed the Inspector's tongue. An electric shock shot through the young man, each time having shared a kiss with him always surprised at the softness and sweet taste of his lips. It was both short and sweet though, Abberline quickly parting from the constable, wearing a smirk that sympathised with him just as much. 'Then you know 'ow much I miss you. Every bloody day.'

'And I am sorry for it,' Ichabod said, just about catching his breath. 'Katrina expected me back hours ago.'

'Your her mongrel and she's your master, tha' right?' Abberline sighed, aggrivated as he sat upright. Hanging his arms over the knees of his bent legs and sideward glaring Ichabod, who was now fumbling again at the line of buttons on his shirt at his chest. 'And I'll jus' sit 'ere, waitin' for you to come back is that it? What do you want from me?'

The constable had finished with his shirt, pausing before reaching for the rest of his clothes and boots. 'I don't know.'

'You don't_ know_?'

'No,' Ichabod said quickly, shooting his lover a look of plead. Pleading with him for stop tugging at the thread that held both pieces of his heart together. One side belonging to Katrina, the other kept by the Inspector. 'What is it _you_ want?'

'I want you to stay.'

A silence struck, Ichabod stuck for words and pressing his lips together with a guilty downward glance. Aberline rolled his eyes, glaring away from him out at the open water. 'Big clever const'ble doesn't know what 'e wants.'

'I love you.'

It was the Inspector's turn to be shot silent, the card played. He turned to look over his shoulder, Ichabod looking at him with a raised brow. 'It isn't nice when those words are used as a weapon, is it?'

'It's not if y'didn't mean it.' The Inspector replied.

The constable reached forward, touching the Inspector's bare shoulder to gently turn him. 'I meant it with every fibre in me.'

This would mark the end of their arguement, the throwing of sharp words coming to a steady drift as the Inspector turned fully. At first, his face was stern like he were about to shoot Ichabod down where he was, but he sighed, resting his hand against the constable's chest and hooking his fingertips in the creases of his white shirt. 'Y'know where I'm stayin', come see me.'

'I shall,' Ichabod swore, proceeding to lift himself up onto his knees to stand but the Inspector's fingers tangled in the folds of his shirt firmly hooked, like an anchor into the seabed. Hungrily pulling at him, so forceful when the constable shifted his body that his fingers punctured right through the linen white, tearing a gap in the constable's shirt. Abberline withdrew his hand, covering his mouth to muffle a chuckle.

'Well, I'm glad you find it funny,' The constable sighed, plucking at the new hole in the chest of his shirt with a pinch of his thumb and index finger. 'That's another hole you've torn in my clothes.'

The Inspector lowered his hand, wearing a simpler grin. 'Good news f'r your tailor then, aye?'

* * *


	3. A dark place

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

**

Tucked in a sombre part of of the city, were pale streets. The morning cold .. bleak, biting weather. Foggy withal touching each person that descended across the dense street and making them stop with a shiver. A fog that came pouring in through every nook and keyhole, making every home and courthouse mere lined phantoms. A street full of white and grey brick, or brick that would have been would the fog and ash allow it. Once upon a time, in a place called America, beat the heart of New York.

The Inspector had eventually persuaded Ichabod to remain for a little while after all the gumption. Minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into the entire night. The pair stayed with each other the night through, the constable waking with a burst of fraught as he knew where he had needed to be. After throwing on his clothes he'd bid Abberline goodbye and hurried away. And now, facing the door of his home and standing its' step he wasn't sure what to expect when he'd enter. Ichabod had made sure he looked the part, clothing carefully placed and adjusted on him and every leaf and blade of grass picked from his hair. Heaving a deep sigh, he twisted the handle of the door and gradually began inside.

Fair lady was not far. Flitting around the kitchenette in her floaty night clothes, blonde hair plaited back and her hands caked in white flour. She hadn't heard him enter, and carried on with her chore even as he crept through to the archway, coat folded over his arm and eyes falling on her. Katrina stopped as she finally noticed him, flashing him just a quick grin before returning to what she was doing.

'What are you doing?' He gently asked.

'I am baking bread.' She answered, dusting her floury hands against each other.

'I would have given you money to buy bread.'

Katrina turned, speaking like it were simple. 'Yes, but you were not here to do that.'

Ichabod sighed, knowing where this was going. Her smile had been a distraction before she would begin to hint her displease. His story had long since been contemplated, as he approached her he knew what words he would say. Ichabod waited until she had the patience to speak to him. A few curls of waving blonde hair escaped her plait, falling over her forehead as she looked up at him waiting for what he would say.

'I'm sorry.' He said. Katrina continued to wait, knowing he was not done. 'I was put on patrol at last minute.'

She looked rather glum, 'You are put on patrol a lot, I notice.'

'It is apart of my duty, as a constable.' Lies, and the more he told them the easier it became. 'I cannot altar that.'

'I never see you.' She said.

'We never see _each other_.' He corrected, purposely leaving away the finer details.

'Will it be like this when we are married?' Katrina was becoming frustrated. 'I did not leave behind my home village and travel to a big, new place to be with you, but never see you! I feel all alone!'

She began to calm herself almost right away, Ichabod blinking at her and his mouth silently working away, unsure what to say to console her. The young lady took a step toward him, leaning into him and bowing her head into his chest. Sighing deeply as she held him with her powdery hands. 'Forgive me, I don't mean to be mad at you.'

Ichabod's arms did not hold her in return, reserved for another. He did nothing, just waiting as she held him fondly and continued, 'You work to feed mine and Masbeth's mouthes, I should be grateful to have such a wonderful man in my heart.'

That was the stab that made his face twinge, guilt eating away at him. How naive she was, how little she knew. The lie was working its' shameful wonders, his bride believing he was away earning the money to keep a nice house and raise the orphan boy they had taken in. Not that she knew how much a constable earned, that detail he had kept a firm secret. A small detail that may well give away that his thoughts and time were far from his constabulary when his time was spent away from home. Her hair smelled so sweet, like lilac or rose petal. Ichabod found himself thinking about Abberline even now. His mop of brown waves smelt nothing like sweet flowers, scenting ash and the musky aroma of his Whitechapel. Not as pleasant as a face full of flowers, but given the choice - the constable would gladly choose to indulge the smell of cigerette fumes.

Ichabod remained silent, just letting Katrina embrace him as much she wanted. Staring ahead absently.

-

A fog began to gather outside the window, thick and chilling. It seeped in through the only slightly opened, full-moon shaped window. Gathering into the bedroom behind, oh so slowly. It crept around the bed where both constable and fiance slept, deep within their dreams and Katrina turned toward Ichabod like she would like to cuddle him even in slumber, but the man was lay on his side turned away from her. Frowning naively as his body felt the biting cold of the fog washing over him, suddenly feeling so cold. Inside his mind, of course, was all so different.

This was a new type of dream. There was no meadow, no cherry blossom trees, and no churches. He could not see himself, but he could feel himself very awarely, as if he were truly awake. What was more was he was not the child he always saw, he was the man he had grown into. It was hot, and dark. No not dark, that was such a poorly chosen word. Pitch black was more appropriate, Ichabod could not see an inch past him. But there was something loud, like a roaring fire. The constable quickly assumed that was what it was, that was what was causing such heat. Ichabod was long past waiting for some violent vision of his mother's demise or his father's wicked sneer to pass, he was now beginning to wonder just what would happen.

'What trick of mind is this,' He muttered, his voice an echoed off nothing. No walls, no objects, nothing. A black, hot abyss. If this was indeed a dream, it was a strange one. Standing alone in darkness was not something he had seen before. No, not alone. Ichabod came to realise that as he heard heavy, haggard breathing. Behind him.

His body sharply turned, the mist twisting around him as he looked around in alarm and his hand went for his pistol. No such luck, the dream world has taken it and left him prey to whatever had come to feed on him. From the shadows the snarled breathing grew deeper, a figure announcing itself froms its ulterior, the invader coming forward to protrude himself. Ichabod narrowed his eyes, bracing himself as the dark, cloaked shadow grew form. Heavy boots clunking against the ground, body covered entirely in black. Ichabod's stare slowly slid up, laying eye on a chalk white face with two of the most piercing, most blood-freezingly blue eyes. Jagged teeth gritting together as he curled a smirk.

The constable's legs nearly gave way, jerking back as his own eyes stared in terror and daunt filled his soul. Before he could turn and run, a hand shot out and snatched at his neck, pushing him hard against a wall that was, apparently, just behind. Ichabod gagged for breath, fingers clutching around the hand grappling tight around his neck.

'Wh--what do you w .. ant ... ' He wheezed, feeling his chest tighten as it ached for air. His feet barely touching the floor. The Hessian bore his bold eyes into him, standing statue stiff and grinning. 'Sie werden Hilfe .. '

Ichabod would have been amazed had he not been fearing for his throat. His legs frantically kicked and his hands tried hard to loosen the Hessian's grip, and to his surprise it did. Ichabod let out a deep gasp, air filling his chest, the horseman's hand falling an inch lower to the base of his neck to keep him firmly pinned in place. Now that he had scared his way into the constable's attention, he could begin the first stage of his exigency.

'Welches war abbauen Sie getötet werden .. ' He snarled, his voice gritty and cold. 'Sie gemordet mein Kind ... '

'W.. what .. ' Ichabod muttered, beginning to shake as he could see the Hessian's smirk curling deeper. The German tongue foreign to the American's ears. The way he spoke it, it sounded almost like a chant.

'Nun jetzt Sie werden Hilfe , .. und bringen mein Kind.' The horseman finished with a cruel rasp, and grinning at Ichabod wildly. The cold mist surrounding them seemed to thicken, almost fogging out the horseman's face, that is until he lunged his head toward Ichabod with his mouth stretched open, with a fierce outcry that threw him into a deeper fright. Only when he felt the painful pierce of the horseman's pointed teeth into the skin of neck did Ichabod yell out, bright red spitting out and the Hessian reveling in the taste of the mortal's lifeblood and the burn of Lucifer's flames.

'_No_!'

The linen sheets of the bed were frantically flown forward as Ichabod threw himself bolt upright. Panting deeply as panic pulsed through him and made his heart pound inside his chest. Katrina was already awake, sitting up herself beside him with a look of fear and concern on her moon pale face. Since the first tremor in his sleep she had sat watching. When it looked like the disturbance was beginning to subside, she shifted her small body closer to him and touched the side of his face, shiny with a sweat.

'Are you alright?' She asked.

Hearing Katrina's soft voice brought him back to the reality which was, relief filling him and his body sagging. 'Yes .. I-I'm alright .. '

She didn't seem convinced, 'You look so harrowed.'

'It was just a dream, Katrina.' He answered like it would give him strength, wiping across his forehead with the sleeve of his arm. Katrina simply sighed, pushing his hair away with a gentle swipe of her fingers and stroking at his face. While doing she accidentaly moved his collar, gasping sharply and snatching her hand away. 'Oh good god!'

Ichabod looked at her right away, fearing he already knew what had bothered her. 'What? What is it?'

Her shaking fingers reached back toward him, fingertips tracing along a set of short, glistening slits in the side of his neck. 'How did this happen?'

The constable pulled away from her, pressing his own palm against his neck and already feeling that fear beginning to return. The divide of teeth-gashes burned against the warmth of his palm, making him wince and drop his hand wrist-first into his lap. What was real and what was unreal collided and matted together in some unearthly mess, a single line of red tracking down Ichabod's neck onto the white of his shirt. Ichabod did not answer Katrina's question, but only lay himself back down. Staring up at the ceiling and pulling his sheet upto his chin, clutching it tightly in his hands. The rest of tonight he would spend lying stone still to think, and not dare fall into sleep.

* * *

**NOTE:** Those who don't know German, it doesn't matter. What the horseman was saying to Ichabod will be revealed in due time.

* * *


	4. Somewhere

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

**

Sometimes a dream is described as an image, an idea, an emotion, a sensation occuring in the mind, or a wild, imagined fantasy. Either way fictional. All happening inside a person's head. How could a dream be told apart from reality, the quality of being true? Ichabod studied himself in the panel of smudged glass, finger pulling slightly down the collar of his black constables' ensemble. On his neck he wore ground-hard evidence that what he had dreamed had happened, in the physical world outside his head. But how could that be when all the while Katrina had watched him sleep? The horseman couldn't have sunk his teeth into him, it couldn't have happened. But the one thing above all that sent him into fears and trembles was that he didnt know what it was the hessian had been saying. He could have been threatening him, warning him or something worse. Ichabod couldn't know, not having ever spoken or understood a word away from his native country. It was frightful to ponder, but Ichabod could think of nothing else.

'Constable Crane!' A voice barked.

Ichabod was instantly startled, whipping round fully. 'Y-yes?'

The other constable was smirking darkly, 'Make you jump, did I?'

'What do you want?'

'Burgomeister needs a few to help bring in some thieves brought in this morning,' He answered, tone quickly sharpening to mock him. 'Seeing as all your doing is looking at your pretty little face in the mirror I thought I'd round you up, Crane.'

Ichabod was not amused, rolling his eyes he began to pass him. 'Constable Bridgeman, always provoking the laughter of others.'

'Sarcasm won't do for you, Crane.' Bridgeman smirked, following just behind the quick-paced younger man. 'I don't know why my Daugney thinks so much of you, sitting in his little tailor shop hoping one day you'll come in yourself to have your clothes mended, so he can finally meet you.'

Ichabod made some small, acknowledging sound as he glared ahead, his mind absent. The other constable from at the back of his head, 'Are you _listening_ to me, Crane?'

'Yes,' Ichabod was quick to answer, not really trying to hide that he was lying and uninterested of what the man had to say. His thoughts were somewhere far more pressing. Bridgeman was not pleased, infact he was rather infuriated, but he wouldn't have the chance to let Ichabod know as they were quickly outside the watch-house and at the foot of a cart, insiding standing rough-looking men, their wrists tied together with rope and their ankles bound in chains. Other constables stood waiting in their identical uniforms, accompanied by the Burgomeister. Dressed in his usual robe and his head held high.

'Constable Bridgeman,' He greeted as they arrived, head turning to look at Ichabod. 'Constable Crane.'

'Sir,' Both constables said in unison.

The elder charge nodded once, his deep voice announcing again. 'Before you continue, I should like to introduce you to a very important person.'

He stepped aside, allowing way for a man dressed smartly in a faintly plaid, dull brown turnout. Ichabod's face almost fell completely, but he was force to hide it as subtley as he could. He knew those deep eyes, that messy hair. Stepping out from the line of constables, came his lover.

'Gentlemen,' The Burgomeister announced. 'I would like for you to meet Inspector Abberline, he has come all the way from London.' He paused, 'Is there something the matter, Constable Crane?'

Ichabod hadn't realised he was staring, quickly straightening himself out and clearly his throat. 'No, sir.'

'Well then,' The Burgomeister drew his attention away from him, grinning proudly at the rest of his force. 'Inspector Abberline will be with us a while to observe, be sure you treat him with tact and respect, am I clear?'

'Yes, sir.' Most of the constables said together.

'Wonderful.' The Burgomeister concluded, beginning past them. 'Well then to your duties, men.'

'Mistah Burg'meister,' Abberline cut in, 'Might I steal one o' your distinguished work force?'

'Certainly, Inspector.' And with that, the Burgomesiter disappeared back into the watch house and the other constables fleeting around the cart, beginning to march the miserable criminals on after him. The Inspector snatched Ichabod by the shoulder, beginning to guide him away.

'Pleased t'see me?' Abberline muttered, looking straight ahead and keeping discreet.

'What are you doing?' Ichabod whispered back as he was steered.

'Need t'do somethin' wiv meself while I'm here.' He replied, turning a corner away from the crowds of black clad constables. 'A very nice sargeant pulled a few strings f'r me.'

Ichabod could not help but grin slightly at this clever man. 'So where are you taking me?'

'Somewhere.'

'I gathered that,' Ichabod answered, a slight crease in his brow as his face touched concern. 'I'm not sure I can just wander off like this .. '

'Ey, who's the very important person all the const'bles 'ave to be very nice to? Oh ye' tha's right, me.' He smirked, Ichabod making some humourous, deep-throated sound. The Inspector since having released his arm and the constable walking freely beside him. They were almost alone, striding deeper and deeper down the stretch of cobblestoned street, a shadow casting over the entire city as the clouds above began to darken grey. They disappeared between a gaggle of smallish houses, emerging into the lush of trees and the fresh smell of crushed grass. The woods drained of their colour, dull. Above, a fine spray began to fall over them. Slightly dampening their hair and clothes. Confident it was just the two now, the Inspector turned on Ichabod and pushed him hard up against a tree trunk, pinning him by the shoulders.

'I love th' bones of you.' He said with passion.

Ichabod, though startled at how he approached it, could not help but feel his longing. Brushing away his eager hands and letting his own slowly trail away from his wrist. 'Abberline .. '

He instantly clapped his hand over the constable's mouth. 'I've not seen you all fucking day, only talk if y'r going t' tell me y'love me back.'

Slowly moving his hand away, Ichabod did not hesitate, 'Of course I do.'

'But why o' course?' The Inspector said, desperatley. 'We spend every day tryin' to get through load o'shit to the next, and struggle with every obstacle that gets flung at us. We're torturin' each other, Crane. Why of course?'

There was a pause as they bore their stares into each others brown eyes, before Ichabod would answer with an innerborn strength. 'Because.'

They were a hairswidth away from each other, and with one swift movement the Inspector's mouth came down into Ichabod's, hungry and avid. His already there hand becoming tangled in his dark hair. Head moving to rest into the curve of Ichabod's neck, the warmth of his palm pressing against his chest and gradually popping undone the front buttons of the constable's uniforms. The heavens finally opened, dark grey clouds breaking apart and a heavy lash of rain taking the place of its finer kin. The constable breathed hard through his teeth, a warm, indulging tongue beginning to stroke at the skin of his neck and a stirring enkindling firing through his blood. Abberline reveled in his sweet taste, sliding his tongue smoothly over until it ran over a row of tiny indentures, unknowing they were Hell's mark and at that moment, going uncaring. All he wanted now was him, all of him. Ichabod felt it too, as the man kissed the intimate line of his throat, his tongue licking a searing hot trail along his neck, and then his teeth, biting, ever so gently, and then not so gently. Evoking mixed moans of pain and pleasure.

They had quickly sunken to the tree's base, the eager Inspector crawling over Ichabod and devouring him in deep kisses that trailed down from his neck, hungrily trying to tug away the sleeves of his constable favour. A groan seemed to rip up Ichabod's throat, both the cold of the winter weather and the warmth of Abberline lay over his body touching him. Twigs snapped and leaves russled beneath them, the hair on their heads sagging under the rain. Ichabod's hands clung to him with need, both their hands reaching under each others clothes and roaming. Exploring the limits of each others bodies.

' .. Abberline ... ?' Ichabod managed to muster, lifting himself onto his elbows.

'Mmmh.. ?' The Inspector's lips were occupied, not looking up as his mouth and tongue carressed, licked and lavered over the soft surface of his stomach. The black button-up torn away from Ichabod's shoulders and arms, his upper body undressed and his lover gradually moving to see more of him.

He tried not to gasp, but a breathlessness escaped into his voice. 'Do you think it right to tempt the devil?'

Abberline paused, parting his lips away from the constable's lean body and darkly smirking up at him through his rich brown hair, 'Th' devil can take it.'

* * *


	5. Powerless

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

The unrelenting welcome of crows cawing and dead looking woods sent a shiver down Ichabod's back as he looked down the colour drained boulevard. A thoroughfare of scattered leaves and a cloudlike fog so thick it masked every tree obscure. The air was suddenly so cold and it made him shiver, a cold and spiritless wind. Like a corpse's breath. His boot met with a patch of mud, courtesy of the rain and the ground fresh. The sky was glazed in grey clouds, no sun or a sign of soul. New York's hours of darkness.

Ichabod had lost the day at the Inspector's mastery, not even returning to complete his duty at the watch house. The Burgomeister wouldn't be best pleased but the telling off would be so worth those few hours they had together. In confidentiality. As he fumbled his way back to the city's heart through the thick of trees, he couldn't help but grin a privy grin. How good Abberline's hands, and tongue, had felt. Such wicked musings, but as he said - devil take it. And he would, devil had no choice. Even in the biting cold he happily carried his black coat over his arm, every thought of Abberline keeping him fine and homely.

A twig snapped and he suddenly jumped to life, turning sharply. Nothing there but a swirling fog. Ichabod glared behind him, eyes studying every direction, so sure that he heard something. After a moment he decided to presume walked as he had been, gradually turning but stopped sharp in his tracks. Something barriered his way, something a little too close for comfort. Ichabod then realized that he was face-to-face with a set of teeth. Sharp, jagged teeth.

With short and sudden gasp he collapsed a step back, shakily pulling out his pistol and aiming messily at his prowler - who was slowly advancing toward him, heavy boots crunching against the leaves. 'S-Stay back! Not another step!'

Ichabod paced back with every step the presence took toward him, his voice becoming more full of fear as his aim trembled more violently. 'Horseman! Do you hear me?'

He couldn't step back any more, his back pressing against a tree trunk, and he daren't run should Daredevil be hiding somewhere. There wouldn't be a chance of escape then. The Hessian stopped at arms length, where the pistol stopped him. The constable swallowed, daring push the gun against the horseman's chest and trying to make his voice more bold and authoritive. 'I returned your head! What do you wa .. _Ow_!'

With the quickest movement the Hessian shot his arm at Ichabod's wrist, twisting tightly until the pistol fell from his hand onto the wet ground. The mist began to blow, slowly float around Ichabod and gradually twisting around his body. It thickened, wrapping around him like ribbons and binding him like chains. He tried to move, he tried to scream. But this was some black magic, imprisoning Ichabod inside mist bandages. He yelled desperatley but his cries were like a whispering breeze through the foggish covering, the Hessian still holding him at the wrist with ease, an un-mortal unphased by the evil spell. His lips began to curl into a wicked grin, his pointed teeth on full show. 'Mein kind .. '

The fact that his shrieking was near silent did not stop Ichabod from screaming his heart out, trying hard to move any part of him as the Horseman lightly began to stroke at his neck, where he had bitten him. It was like trying to push himself through a wall, impossible. He was completely helpless as the Hessian wickedly proceeded, forcing himself onto him. Crushing down on the powerless mortal like a ton of bricks.

* * *


	6. Drained

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

* * *

**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**

* * *

  
**  
The night of rumbling thunder and lashing rain slowly passed. A dull sunshine begin to emrge over the building peaks, only slightly lighting the city. Every dew drop on the grass glistened and the rustle of leaves gently blew in the air of the early morning. Katrina had tried so hard to will herself awake all through the night and wait for her fiance so that for once, she might not have to retire to bed alone. But she had failed, her head eventually slumping into her arms against the table and falling into sleep. Now as morning broke, the stairs began to creak. Masbeth took each step carefully, squinting as he emerged into the faintly lit hallway. The night previous he had been determined to stay up and wait with Katrina, but she had not let him.

'Miss Katrina?' His young voice perked, turning into the arched doorway and peering. She gently breathed, buried under her shimmering gold hair sprawled over the table. The young boy stopped just beside her, looking down at her sleeping form with concern. For both her and his master. If Katrina was still there, then Ichabod had not returned home. It worried the youngster, last night roaring with so much raging rain even he had struggled to sleep. He rested his hand gingerly on her arm, and shook with little weight or force. 'Miss Katrina ..?'

The beauty stirred almost immediately, her head emerging through her locks. She blinked like she were confused, then twisted her neck to look at the boy. 'Oh, Masbeth.' There was a yawn in her voice. 'Good morning.'

He offered her a sad smile, then took this as his permission to draw a seat beside her. 'He .. hasn't come back yet then?'

Katrina smoothed out her lap, heaving a sigh as she looked out of the oval window. 'No.'

'Where do you think he is?'

'I trust he is still on duty.' She answered glumly, returning her stare to the table. 'I worry for him, Masbeth. I really do.'

The boy's eyes widened, like he were alarmed. 'How do you mean?'

'Well .. ' When she went to look at the boy, she could see how she had startled him. Katrina patted his arm, trying a force a smile that would console him. 'All this sleep deprivation cannot be good for him, and surely you as well as I wish to see him more?'

Masbeth said the only thing he thought right to say, 'He said when I become sixteen I can work alongside him.'

That didn't help much, Katrina sighing at the thought of her only company during the day being robbed from her too. 'The work of a constable, it seems to never be done ... '

The sound of a door closing broke through Katrina's sentence, striking her silent. Both turned over the shoulders and rose from their chairs, 'Ichabod .. ?' She called, treading out of the parlour and her pale nightdress spilling out behind her. Masbeth followed just behind. No answer.

'Sir?' The boy tried, turning a wall corner and stopping at what he saw. Katrina too, her hand clapping over her mouth to contain a sharp gasp. The constable had certainly entered the home, standing with his back pressed up against the door. His dark eyes staring at the floor, paralyzed and dazed. Barely dressed too, his shirt and trousers torn violently and his boots gone. His legs swathed in mud from the knees down, like he had been crawling and leaves and twigs entangled in his hair. They trembled, like they would drop him any moment.

'_Sir_!' Masbeth exclaimed, Katrina flying past him feverishly.

'Ichabod, darling!' She fled, collapsing against him and holding him desperately. Her arms felt every tremble. 'What has happened to you?'

His skin was so cold, and a washed-out white. Her hands were surprised at how sodden and chilly his torn clothes felt, his hair hanging in his eyes. Ichabod didn't answer, not properly. Some low, quivering murmer her answer as his body shivered. He slipped through Katrina's arms, falling lifelessly onto his knees and his head bowed. Young Masbeth didn't know what to do with himself, as he watched on in fear as Katrina dropped beside him and rubbed her walm, silken soft palm against his arm, so cold it shamed the breath of winter. Begging him. 'Oh Ichabod, please, speak to me!'

Finally, his head shakily rose. Only slightly though, just enough for Katrina to see his eyes. Red and bloodshot, sunken into his face and ringed dark. He was looking at her with perplexity, his sickly pale face etched with confusion. Like he hadn't been expecting her. The early flounderings of his yesterday just seeming so far away. 'K.. Katrina?'

She sighed with relief, finally some life. 'Yes darling, I'm here.'

Masbeth knelt carefully beside him, not daring touch him. He looked so fragile he might crack with so much as a feather's touch. 'Sir, what happened?'

Ichabod's eyes darted to the boy, breathing hard. Exhausted. He furrowed his brow, trying to say at least something. But he was too drained to even stay concious, all the strength he had left spent on the dreary treck home. The constable collapsed and Katrina caught him in her arms, she and Young Masbeth exchanging very worried glances. Tonight it seemed, the mother of contempt had thrown her head back and laughed.

* * *


	7. The Silent Man

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

'I've come for Constable Crane.'

'Constable Crane is unavailable.' Katrina barried the doorway with her small body as best she could, like the the guest would barge past her at any moment. The look on his face was certainly feeding the idea, a stern frown on his face.

'_Uncommited_ more like, it seems.' A man dressed completely in black, wearing a practically identical uniform to the rest of the constables. The only different that this one chose to wear his hardhat, something Ichabod did not do. 'He was unavailable yesterday _and_ the day before.'

'He is ill at present.' She answered prudently, her face as calm as she could make it.

The aging, eminent constable looked at her skeptically, then attempting to glare past her as if Ichabod were hiding somewhere behind her. 'How ill?'

'Ill enough that it will effect his work performance I'm sure, constable.' Katrina said, adding a graveness to her voice. The lawman returned his eyes to her, frown still intact. He gave an unimpressed grunt, but nodded nonetheless.

'Tell Constable Crane, from the Burgomeister, that if he fails to attend his duty tommorow morning then he will be in serious danger of being dismissed.' He said seriously, tipping his hat to her. 'Good day, miss.'

Katrina nodded to show she understood, and eased the door closed as he turned his back to her and descended away into the street. She leaned against the closed door, cupping her cheek in her hand. Being ill would be a far more merciful thing then what he truly was going through. A tortured silence. Ichabod had bedridden himself for the last two days, going on three. He did nothing, said nothing. In fact, he had not spoken in all that time, not confiding even slightly what had happened to him that night. Masbeth and Katrina kept in the dark. His shrouded Inspector had not seen him in days either, Ichabod just sitting lifeless in his bed and staring into his lap.

The young lady sighed as she decided she would try again with him, boiling some tea and beginning up the stairs. For days she had wondered what could possibly have silenced the umbrageous constable, what had sent him home from such weather and torn his clothes. Perhaps he had been robbed and left for dead, or perhaps it was something far worse. As she reached his door, she wore a sweet smile as she entered cup in hand.

'Ichabod,' Katrina said gently, 'I've brought you some tea.'

The spiritless man neglected her, whether it was by his own intention or if he was just lost in his own head she wasn't sure. He was still situated in his bed, sitting with his back against the headboard and staring ahead. Katrina didn't even know if he had slept, his eyes a sore looking red - like he had been crying. She set the cup and saucer down on the small table at his bedside, sitting carefully on the bed herself and placing her hands over her lap. Her small white hand lifted, trying to touch his face but whenever she tried, he moved away from her touch. Eyes avoiding her.

'Ichabod,' She began to beg, her hand falling. '_Please_, just speak to me.'

His deadpan face slowly began to turn into her direction, looking into her beseeching eyes. The colour of autumn leaves. Ichabod felt him numbness be dampened with a displeasment as her hands moved again, cupping around one of his biting cold fists. It was not her that he wanted to comfort him, but how was she supposed to realise that. How on earth was he supposed to let her in. 'Katrina .. '

Her shoulder's sagged with relief. At last, some sentience. She dearly squeezed his balled up hand, trying to smile. 'Yes, what is it?'

Ichabod's voice was as quiet as a whisper, the essense of diffidence. 'I ... _saw_ him .. '

'Who, Ichabod? Who did you see?'

'The .. d-demon .. ' He stammered, lowering his head and frowning down at his lap. 'Snarling roar .. sharp t-teeth .. '

A pause, his head bowing slightly lower. ' ... Monstrous, cruel eyes .. '

Katrina's hands slipped off him, her face falling with shock. She leaned forward a little, her voice hushed . 'You saw the .. the Horseman?' The girl didn't even wait for an answer, if she was ever going to get one. 'Did he attack you?'

'.. Yes.' Ichabod muttered.

'I .. I don't understand!' She exclaimed. 'He wears his head now at your favour, why would he do this to you?'

The constable decided with his head hung, that he would not explain to her the finer details. It would horrify her too much to know the full extent of what he went through that night. It made him wonder what he had ever done to heavenly deith to cause him to hate him so much, his life far from golden thus far. There seemed to be death, bloodshed and savagery at his every corner turn. What he wouldn't give for just a little quiet. A little peace. 'I don't know.'

And as Katrina took him in her caring arms, he closed his eyes. Longing so desperately for when he would see the Inspector next.

* * *


	8. Cold sweat

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

* * *

What a wearisome spring it was proving to be. The sun seemed to be dying in the sky and any flowers that had tried to give off shoots through the grass withered and recoiled, like they were afraid to be exposed. New York had an unusually cold air this season, and it affected the city folk. Nobody felt the felicity of April nor its' bliss. Dark winter, it seemed, had a tendency to last year round.

'You don't have to go today.'

'Yes I do.' Ichabod muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his boots. Standing just inches away, Katrina clutched together the sides of her nightgown, her long golden hair plaited behind her. The day barely new.

'But I don't think your quite sound,' She tried weakly. 'You still seem so nettled after what happened .. '

_'Don't, _Katrina.' He cut in, the look he gave as sharp as his tongue. It was still so raw, so sensitive. 'Just .. don't.'

The lady silenced her trail of words almost right away, but not before giving him a misgiving look. 'I just don't think you can face the day.'

'Katrina,' Ichabod addressed, his voice firm as he slowly stood up from the bed. 'I have worked under New York's constitution for years, risking dismissal now is just ... well, ridiculous.'

'Your wellbeing is not ridiculous.' Katrina urged, moving closer to him and holding his face in her small hands. 'I worry for you, my love.'

Another penny in the pot of misconduct, guilt as she leaned forward to kiss his lips and once again, craning his head away. Her kiss coming to rest on his cheek. So long he had been avoiding her kiss, her love. Katrina eased her face away from his as he avoided looking her in the eye, deciding that for now he did not want affections - he was far too troubled to absorb them, so she thought. A silence began to grow between them, until Ichabod broke it with a deliberate cough.

'I must be leaving.' He said at last.

Katrina tried one last time, 'Are you sure I cannot get you to stay home?' She touched his forehead, and furrowed her brow slightly. 'You're sweating.'

This time Ichabod did not shake away from her hand, frowning himself. The weather had been so biting lately, and had even managed to seep into the house. He didn't feal an inch overheated, nor had he been. His fingers dabbed at his face, finer dark hairs sticking against his forehead. His fingertips glistened at him, a cold sweat. He stared at his two fingers a moment longer, his frown then quickly falling and brushing it off.

'I am leaving now.' Ichabod told her again, firmer this time as let his hand fall and took past Katrina before she could stop him again.

His flustered form escaped out of the doorway, not having given her a backward glance as he bid his quick goodbyes. Katrina just helplessly watched him, quietly bidding her own farewell to him and praying he may get through the day smoothely. She watched until he was completely out of sight, the door closing hard behind him as he emerged into the streets. Hardly a soul at this ungodly hour, any sensible soul getting himself a few hours rest. Ichabod could barely call what he had the night before rest, all his tortured thoughts gathering in his mind and keeping him awake. All he had been able to see was the Hessian's devilish grin, baring at him as he thrashed over his contricted body. Roughing away at him unwrought like something there for the pouring over. His kiss too, pushed upon Ichabod's mouth and cutting him, forced to taste his own blood. How he had wanted to splutter and spit, even moreso the wanting to escape. Escape ...

'Sir?' A hand waved in his face, pulling him back to reality. Ichabod blinked for the first time in moments, looking wildly at the shaking hand then to the face of its own. Just a stranger. He looked at the silent constable with somewhat of an apology, 'I'm sorry, sir .. but, you were just _standing_ there and staring. Like some kind of ghost. Are you alright?'

Ichabod flinched, what an ugly choice of words. 'Yes, I'm fine. Thank you.'

He hurried away before the stranger could become as worrysome as his fiance, taking long strides with his head down. Wiping the sleeve of his arm against his face, feeling his skin actually burn up this time. Not like previous, the sweat breaking and going un-noticed. He let his arm stay at his face, resting his forehead rested against his wrist. Had he the liberty or power to actually make his own decision Ichabod would have gladly chosen to bleed another day away under his bedcovers. Yet ahead was another day of serving under the humless capacity where nothing mattered as much as making money, dragging fists and beating heads. Ichabod groaned into his arm at the thought. Where success was a life consuming job and they were the latchkey children of beaurocracy, forgotton spawn of what they had the nerve to name a just society. A fine career shews.

* * *

Arriving at the municiple building had been faster then expected. Stepping in Ichabod could only see a handful of men standing around waiting for their orders, that along with the many, many cage-like cells crammed with sad looking people, convicted fellons - as they were labelled. Some did not look so sad, some were madly yelling and hammering at the bars of their trappings, on the brink of insanity. The constable slowly swallowed as he descended down the aisle between jails, between the moans and cries of the convicted. Trying not to let them get inside his already throbbing head.

There seemed to be someone waiting for him at the end of the aisle, 'Constable Crane, so nice to see you at last.'

The sarcasm in his fellow constable's voice was not amusing to him, face dull as he approached. 'Constable Bridgeman.'

'I heard you were ill.' He said, Ichabod only giving him a small mumble in reply with a sagging head. 'Well, I trust you are feeling better today and you are prepared.'

Instantly Ichabod's head perked, looking unsettled. 'Prepared? What for?'

'You've forgotten, Crane? You're giving your little presentation to the other constables today, and we're _so_ looking forward to it.'

More sarcasm, did the man not know another tone to speak in? Yet still, Ichabod's eyes widened as he recalled. His return from Sleepy Hollow had proved successful, and the Burgomeister had not ceased to be impressed. So science had a place in the world, after all. Of course Ichabod had skirted his was around the story, making more point over the fact that the supernatural had prevailed. He could not tell the Burgomesiter and the enitre New York public that, they would take him for a mad man - he knew he would if he were amoungst them. No, he had made it quite clear that he had silenced the murders as asked and was owed a favour. All he wanted was an open ear. Yet now when he would receive was not most convienient.

'Is there something wrong, constable?' Bridgeman inquired.

Ichabod pressed his lips together, shaking his head. 'No .. I, just .. it had slipped my mind.'

'Well it had better hurry and slip back in there,' He jabbed his thick finger in the air, towards Ichabod's forehead but did not take to actually poke him. 'You'd better get out there, they're already waiting for you.'

'What? So early?'

'Of course,' Bridgeman smirked as he watched Ichabod turn and start to hurry away, 'Oh, and Crane?'

Ichabod turned, frowning slightly. 'Yes?'

The elder constable tossed him something waif, robbled up in a ball and throw with an under toss of his arm. It hit against Ichabod's chest, so light it was impossible to feel pain, and landing in his open in his hands. A dull white hankerchief.

Bridgeman called, 'Wipe your face, man. You're sweating quite abit.'

* * *

* * *


	9. No Interruptions

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

  
**  
The fixes and fittings of the small room lit only by the daylight through the barred window was not exactly to taste. The floor ran with the occasional rat, the bricks were dark with dirt and there was a brisk chill blowing through the cracks in the walls. In the rooms centre, stood a lengthly table and lay ontop of that was a very still - very dead - body. At the tableside an even small table, made to fit purpose and staying tucked into the corner of the examination table, holding up a tray of custom made tools and tricks. Ichabod silently stood waiting, hands rested on the edge of the table and his head down. He had lost count of the minutes he had been kept waiting by his supposed disciples, distracted by a terrible and gradual churning feeling in the pit of his stomach, making him breath queasily and sweat more then he had today. Every now and then he was forced to dab at his face with the front of his apron. Was he more nervous then he thought he would be? Perhaps so.

'Ey,' Ichabod's head lifted when he realised he was no longer alone, seeing his Inspector walk in through the arched brickway. He looked at Abberline wearily as he began to approach him, thinking he would have a thousand things to tell him. But was it really wise? Perhaps the Inspector would be driven away by the idea of another worldly force handling his body so roughly. The thought scared Ichabod, the thought of narrowing down his already dense time with him. He swallowed, perhaps now was not the time.

'Whats th' matter?' Abberline asked, stopping at Ichabod's side. The constable looked so flustered, not to mention exhausted.

'What?' Ichabod said under his breath, side-ward glancing the Inspector. Brought back from his thoughts. 'Oh nothing, Inspector. Nothing.'

'Doesn't look like nufin.' Abberline said mildly, beginning to step behind the constable. He had took to noticing the dear man's apron was untied and just hanging loose off him. Taking the two flimsy pieces of fibrous threads and began to tie them together. 'Your as white as a sheet.'

'You always say that.'

The Inspector chuckled, looking down at what he was doing. 'Yeh, your right.' His quiet laugh died. 'But in all seriousness, are you aw'right?'

Ichabod managed a weak nod and Abbeline pulled the final knot in the string of his apron, returning back to the constable's side. He decided this moment alone with him he would use well, reaching to hold the side of his face and brushing away escaped strands of black hair with his thumb. 'Don't lie t'me, wha's wrong?'

It took a moment or so for Ichabod to face him, unsure of what he would say. The Inspector was determined, staring into his eyes with genuine concern in his face. He wanted to tell him, he wanted to tell him what had happened to him - but he was so afraid of the aftermath. Ichabod's mouth slowly opened to try words, failing several times before any sound came out.

'Abberline .. '

Mutters and chattering voices that were once distant became noticably louder, Ichabod backing away suddenly and the Inspector dropping his hand as a bustle of constables began to pour into the room. All uproarious and loud like a rabble of school children. They swarmed around the table, standing shoulder to shoulder and Abberline leaned forward to quickly mutter to Ichabod.

'Over t'you, constable.' He whispered, beginning to back away into the crowd. As he joined amoungst the noisy gathering, Ichabod swallowed again with nerves. How observation suffered him. The crowd of men began to quieten, all eyes on Ichabod in the centre of the room.

He cleared his throat, pressing both palms together in an attempt at composure. 'Alright, well .. now that everyone is here .. '

'Clumsy Crane's going to show us how to defile a corpse?' A rather rude constable cut in, afew mumbling chuckles from the crowd.

'Oi,' The Inspector drew his club and struck it hard against the corner wall, gaining the attention of the offending constable. He pointed it at him as a warning. 'What did y'r Burgomesiter say?'

The man almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it. 'No interruptions, Inspector.'

'Inspector _who_?'

There were more chuckles coming from the crowd at the humiliation of the offender then the outburst itself, the interjecting constable reply with a bit of a grumble. 'Inspector _Abberline_.'

'S'better.' He gave Ichabod a nod vertifying him to continue. 'As you were, Constable Crane.'

Ichabod could not help but feel some sense of pride. Even in silence the beautious, bold but brave man was his. He tried not to smile at him, his lips wobbling a little to stay straight. Turning back to the corpse, he ran his hand slowly and smoothly over its' surface.

'The purpose of an autopsy is to examine the body and determine the cause of death. It is a critical assessment.' Ichabod said clearly, picking up one of his more favoured tools and hovering it just above the body. 'This cadaver, as you can see, was a man. He was discovered just yesterday and has yet to be identified.'

Abberline watched the demonstrator as he paced deliberatly around the dead body, tool in hand. Savouring his intelligence. Ichabod continued, 'I have reason to believe the deceased was beaten to death, if there is bruising to the brain matter then it will confirm that the deceased lost his life to severe trauma to the head, and so was murdered. So in tern, we can hunt down this murderer before he kills again. Am I understood?'

There were some nods from the crowd, and some just didn't bother. The constable wasn't really watching for his student's reactions, he was more focused on the head of the body. Vertical lines marked around the entire head, done by himself just hours earlier. 'What I shall do now is cut along the marked lines, remove a portion of the skull and begin the process of removing the brain. Once it is cut from its' attachments, it can be gently eased out and placed into this tray.'

Ichabod tapped at a flimsy tray with his index finger, some of the constables grimacing. All eyes were on his hand grappling at the tool with the jagged circular blade, poised above the head. 'To ensure the skull is properly penetrated, a key thing to remember is .. i-is ... '

Oh no. He could feel it coming on, that sickly churning in his stomach pushing against his throat. Not here, oh dear God not here. The silence was broken by the wave of murmerings falling over the crowd, looking at him oddly as he hunched, dropping the instrument to the floor with a clatter and clapping his hand over his mouth.

'E-excuse me .. ' He quickly muttered through his hand, breaking into a sprint and pushing his way through the gathering. Abberline was anchored in place, for a moment stunned. But it did not take long for him to take after Ichabod, pursueing him down the hall and dissappearing from the sight of the other colleagues.

'Crane - wait! _Ichabod_ .. !' The Inspector shouted after him, but the man wasn't as on his heels as he thought. Ichabod was far ahead, desperatly trying to escape from anyone's view and rushing outside. He darted to the side of the building, as hidden as possible and his head threw forward by its' own force. He coughed loudly as he vomited into a hedge.

The coughing, spluttering and heavy rustles of the hedge leaves lead Abberline to him, standing just behind him and watching in a haze. The man, as it seemed, really wasn't all the well.

'I knew there was sum'fin wrong wiv you.' The Inspector said sadly, approaching his side and deciding to help him by holding back his hair as he heaved more. 'You ain't well.'

There was a moment of mercy where the vomiting stopped, Ichabod panting and wiping at his mouth in disgust. He sighed, knowing the Inspector was right. 'I know.'

'What's wrong?'

'I don't... ' Ichabod was cut off as he felt it again, turning his head away back into the hedge and, again, violently upchucking. Abberline sighed, rubbing his hand up and down the man's back with his other hand.

He waited until the poor constable's stomach stopped making him chunder up its' contents. Speaking again, 'You need t' see a doctor.'

'I'm_ fine_.' Ichabod insisted, his eyes closing. The rubbing of his back felt good, it was soothing. 'I don't need a doctor.'

'Bullshit.' Abberline said, his tone not changing. 'Yer not well.'

There was a touch of worry in Ichabod's voice, 'What if .. what if I'm dying?'

'Oh rubbish, y'aint dyin'.' The Inspector said, combing his fingers through Ichabod's thick hair to calm him. 'Y'need a doctor. 'Ey, I'll take ye if you want.'

* * *


	10. Doctor Rolfe

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

* * *

  
****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**

* * *

  
**  
'Would you like for me to come with you, sir?'

'Oh no, no. I'll be fine alone.'

The young boy sitting on the edge of the bed watched his guardian pull on his long coat, pushing his arms through and straightening it out. 'But you accompanied me to the doctor that time I burned with fever?'

'That is different, Young Masbeth.' Ichabod replied, being as delicate as he possible could. He turned his back to the boy as he looked himself in the mirror. 'You are a child, and as an adult I am responsible for you.'

'What about miss Katrina? Is she going with you?'

The constable stopped dead, his reflectiong freezing along with him. There was a brief moment of silence. 'No, she isn't.'

Young Masbeth fiddled with his cuffs as he looked at the back facing him. 'Why?'

How Ichabod wished the boy would just leave it, but Masbeth being an eager and curious, sometimes too curious, young man had its disadvantages. He searched for ways to skirt around his answer, accidentally bluring out the first thing that came to his mind. 'B-Because I've not told her I am going .. '

'What? But .. should she not know, sir .. ?'

'Masbeth, _please_!' Ichabod's voice struck a firm and somewhat riled tone as he sharply turned, a stirring reaction he had never had to use with Young Masbeth and the boy fell silent at once, surprised. Just looking at the child Ichabod could see he was mere inches away from frightening him, so he stopped before saying another word. Taking a deep breath and letting his voice come out low, calmer. 'I don't want to worry her.'

Masbeth nodded frantically before Ichabod had even finished, 'Alright, .. sir.'

Then as the boy shifted from the bed and made a quickish shuffle from the room, Ichabod felt himself holding guilt in his hands. Not just for snapping at Masbeth but because perhaps the boy had a point. Perhaps Ichabod should tell Katrina he was visiting the doctor, it wasn't like she didn't want him to. Oh but that interval inbetween, how she would fret. But then they were only the underlying grounds. Katrina couldn't know because for certain she would insist on going with him, and Ichabod already had his chaperon. His kind company.

* * *

There was a gentle rocking back and forth, side to side as the thin wheels drew over the cobblestones. The clipping and clopping of horse shoes trotting against the ground as the carriage made its descent down the boulevard was barely heard from the inner. The two men sitting closely beside each other and in silence. The constable looked with a dull face at the floor, whilst the Inspector glanced out of the window at the passing streets and buildings.

'So, what d'ye reckon the doctor will say?' Abberline asked, deciding to break the quiet. He turned away from the window, looking at Ichabod. Who was leaning back now, hovering his hand over his mouth as he tried to make his yawn as inconspicuous as he could.

When he finished, he lowered his hand and answered. 'I think he is going to tell me I have some horrid disease and that I am days from death's door.'

The Inspector gave him a nudge with the corner of his elbow, frowning. 'Will y'stop it? Yer just gettin' checked over, y'aint about t'die anytime soon.'

'I feel differently.' Ichabod grumbled, not meaning for the Inspector to hear. But he did, thinking he would frown and just shake his head and sigh. But Abberline decided not to, winding his arm around the man's shoulders and pulling him in the rest on him.

'Yer fine, Crane .. the doctor, well 'e will probably say its' somethi- .. Oi? Stop yawnin' while I'm talkin' to you ay? Am I borin' you or some'fin?'

'I'm sorry.' Ichabod said drowsily, his head happily settled against Abberline's shoulder. 'I am, .. I am just so tired.'

'And y'r sweatin' again, all over me arm.' The Inspector grumbled, but he did nothing to remove him. His hand securely fastened around Ichabod's shoulders and letting him lie. The silence fell over them again as the Inspector disappeared into his own head, thinking deeply. His words were not concrete certain, no matter how confident he had appeared in Ichabod's eyes. Just what would this erudite doctor tell wheyfaced Ichabod? Abberline had been watching him so closely the last few days, noting down every imperfection. The nausea, the sweating and the constant fatigue. Perhaps he _was_ sick with some devestating illness, but God how Abberline prayed against it. He savoured this time, alone in the carriage with his dearest. The side of his face tilted against the top of Ichabod's head, resting against babysoft black toussles. And how delicate his breathing was. Slow too.

'Crane?' He quietly muttered. No reply. The Inspector frowned a little, shifting his shoulder away slightly and noticing Ichabod's head droop as he did. It seemed like dear constable had drifted into sleep against him as he had been thinking inside himself. Abberline looked down at him, not knowing whether to smile at him or worry himself silly.

The Londonder's lamenting eyes fell half-closed, returning his head to rest back into the feathery warmth of Ichabod's hair. Listening to his gentle, humming breathing. His hand was creeping up along the absent constable's arm before he even knew it, stroking with a fine touch the side of Ichabod's face with the front of his fingers. This was solitude, peace. Inside the little carriage, just them two. The Inspector decided not to wake Ichabod, letting him get some rest. By the look of him he looked like he needed it too. He remembered meeting up with Ichabod earlier that day, how drained he had looked. His already-pale face a more sickly shade and his eyes ringed and bloodshot. Almost slovenly, but Abberline knew he was on his last legs. Jaded. Did he ever recall worrying so much for Victoria?

Oh God Victoria.

His eyeslids heavily sank, face twisting somber as he thought of her. Beautiful, fair Victoria. The forces, principles of power that determined her outcome were cruel when they took her, and their barely-new son, but Abberline had to admit to himself that his sweet wife was beginning to fade to black in his mind as the days, weeks, years stretched past him. There was a time when he never stopped. Couldn't stop. He would ever see her, in the smoke of his opium-induced stupors. Clutching a blanketed bundle against her and reaching out to him. His hand would stretch out, reaching for her, and when their fingers were a hair's width away from touching .. he would wake. The guilt as he knew she was so much less important now, his heart was no longer hers. The Inspector's love had slowly began to die with her, but there were always going to be regrets. What if she had survived the childbirth? Would he have still have fallen for Ichabod? Even more pressing, would he even have met Ichabod? Yes. Oh yes. There was always going to be an Ichabod Crane for him. But then .. what if Abberline's ill-omened child were alive today? What if ... what if ..

The coach suddenly stopped with a jolt. The Inspector's eyes jerking open as his hand around Ichabod's shoulders clutched tighter on reaction, startled. The daylight seeping into the coach window stung the Inspector's eyes, making him squint. Yet when his eyes narrowed, a tear rolled down his cheek. He felt it, leaving a warm track and was surprised. How powerful more painful memories can be. As he felt the constable stir against him, he flicked it away with a swipe of his fingers as quick he could. Not wanting Ichabod to see him shed.

'Mmmhmm .. mm?' Ichabod mumbled non-words, lifting himself off Abberline slowly and rubbing at his tired eyes. His hair hanging in his face. 'What? .. Where are we?'

Abberline lifted his arm away from him, letting him rise and managing a dull grin. 'I fink we've arrived at the doctor's.'

Ichabod looked surprised by this, but quickly accepted it and breathed shakily inward, ridden with nerves. He shifted along, pushing the door ajar and about to lift himself out but he stopped and looked over his shoulder, noticing the Inspector was making no effort to exit to carriage. 'Abberline? Are you not coming?'

He shook his head, 'No, too risky innit? Me takin' you into the doct'r an' all. I'll wait for y' here.'

The disheartenment on Ichabod's face was obvious, no matter how well he thought he was hiding it - but he bravely nodded, turning away but got no furthur than an inch before Abberline leaned toward him, turning his head and chancing a quick, consoling kiss. Ichabod accepted, grateful for that quick moment of comfort. He sat patiently until the Inspector broke away.

'You'll be fine.' He said, masking a confidence. 'Jus' fine.'

The office of the general practitioneer's quarters were just as un-nerving as Ichabod thought they would be. Fidgeting in the over-cushioned seat and waiting. He remembered walking in, emerging into the room where the patients were to remain stationary until they would be seen. His eyes had blinked bewildered by the amount of people sitting inactive, all seeming a more dire then him. One man was cradling an arm bent at an un-natural angle and a woman had desperately been trying to soothe her screaming child, who was white with some disease and in obvious pain. He had swallowed, suspecting quite well Abberline would be waiting in the carriage a while, that is until a matron had flitted over to him and asking his name, paper and ink-wettened feather in hand. It seemed almost right away that the constable had priority, the woman springing to life when he revealed he worked under municiple law. Ichabod had been sent in to see the doctor right away, and although it seemed convienient it had been difficult not to look at the sick and injured as he passed them and not feel a pinch of guilt. Perhaps he really was fussing over nothing.

'Constable Crane?'

Ichabod's sunken head lifted, the once-empty chair perched behind a desk infront of him now occupied. He wondered how long he had been there. 'Yes.'

The man was an elder, rounded fellow. Sitting back in his chair and stroking at his greying beard. 'Good morning, and how are things over at New York's authority?'

'Trying to keep me in their pockets, as the norm.'

The doctor uttered a hearty chuckle, 'Power and supremacy being of the essense, am I right?'

There was a lame, dull smile on Ichabod's face for the doctor's sake, politely following the homour. 'Precisely, Doctor .. ?'

'Doctor Rolfe, constable.' The doctor was gracious thus far. Full figure filling the red seat and his hands clasped together over the desk. 'What is it I might do for you?'

Ichabod cleared his throat with a low-throated cough before answering, 'That is the problem, doctor. I don't know what is wrong with me.'

'Do you feel ill, or something to that calibre?'

'Constantly.' The question was answered without hesitation.

Rolfe had indeed noticed the young constable's sickly appearance, but decided not to act on it yet. 'And have you any symtoms, constable?'

'Yes, yes I .. I have quite a few.' He said, trying to hold his voice together as he thought through the last few weeks in his head. 'It started with .. sweating, yes - constant sweating. Even in this brisk weather. From there it progressed into fatigue, and vomiting .. '

Rolfe interrupted him, 'How long have you been suffering these symtoms?'

'Oh, uhm .. ' The constable thought deeply for a moment. 'Roughly about three weeks, I'd say, doctor.'

'You left it three weeks before seeking medical advice, Constable Crane?' The doctor asked, a concerned furrow on his face.

A weary shrug passed through Ichabod's shoulders, 'I hoped it would pass.'

'I see.' Rofle said, lifting himself out of the seat and leaning across the desk, pressing his palm against Ichabod's forehead. 'Hmmm. Do you have fever often?'

The constable waited before Rolfe's thick hand was away from his head before answering, 'Yes, I do. But it is strange because my skin will burn hot yet .. I shiver with cold.'

'You suffer with cold sweats then?'

' .. Yes?' Ichabod answered uneasily, noticing how the doctor seemingly ignored what he just said.

'Alright, I think I may know what is the matter with you.' Rofle declared, cupping his hands together. 'You don't have a thing to worry about, constable.'

'I don't?'

'No, I'm confident.' He said, nodding with a reassuring grin. 'You see, there is a common cold spreading around New York this spring because of the harsh winter just passed. I'm confident that all that has happened is that you caught it.'

'A .. cold?' Ichabod was tense in his seat, his own sweating palms clasped together.

The doctor nodded once again, 'The facts are simple and are as follows, you have contracted a common _malaise_, if you will, and will be better in no time. I recommend staying warm though, wrap up abit.'

A final nod was sent Ichabod's way, a hint of his dismissal. But Ichabod was too busy frowning at the floor to notice, so unsure of what he was thinking. Was he relieved, or was he as unsettled as ever? Just hours ago he had thought there was chance he was dying, and now to be given an almost-clear bill of health so suddenly was, well, overwhelming. So why the uncertainty, why this niggling feeling that he didn't quite believe what Rolfe was telling him?

The doctor began to eye him strangely, clearling his throat loudly to gain his attention. 'Constable?'

It worked, Ichabod blinking back to the concious world and realizing that Rolfe was gently trying to dismiss him. He decided he would not try to dig into a debate with the doctor, standing up with abit of a fluster and bidding a hurried goodbye to Doctor Rolfe as he was already half-way out the door. Outside the carriage waited patiently where it halted, Abberline inside still. His head tilted back against the peak of the seat and his fingers drumming on his knees. The sounds of the outside muffled, from the clippings and cloppings of passing horseshoes to the mumbling chatter of the city folk. God, he would have killed for a cigerette right there. He lifted his head back up as he felt the coach shake with another body climbing into it, closing the door sharply behind them.

'So?' Abberline asked, looking at Ichabod. Who was staring absently down his hands, clasped together and his fingers entwined. Inside his head unclarity, unable to act with understanding. The Inspector didn't know what to think by his silence, taking to reach over and shake his knee. 'Oi.'

Ichabod's head swung, as if startled. 'Yes, what?'

'What did th' doctor say then?'

'Oh,' The constable pressed his lips together, primming them as he slowly shook his head. Abberline watching him carefully, hand still on his knee. 'He said .. well, he said I'm fine.'

The Inspector broke into a grin right away, patting his leg heftily with his palm. 'Y'see? I said you woz' fine.'

'I don't know, Abberline.'

'O'come on, Crane.' The Inspector smirked, his own relief overshadowing the need to acknowledge Ichabod's uncertainty. 'I said you woz' going t'be fine, and guess what? Your fine. Come on, let's go 'ave a drink.'

Ichabod's voice was a mutter, 'I don't drink, Abberline .. '

His smirk deepened, 'Who said it woz' for you? Come on, I've been gaggin' in here.'

The mirth in the Inspector wasn't enough to ease the constable. It was just, we was not convinced that Doctor Rolfe was right. They way he avoided acknowledging certains things, the fact that he didn't even examine him, aside a quick feel of the forehead, well, it told Ichabod that perhaps the doctor wasn't as practised as most liked to think. Ichabod had suffered colds before, and what he was feeling now .. it wasn't a cold. He decided that he would take his own charge, and discover what was _truly _wrong with him. Because as sure as the sky was blue and the grass was green, it certainly wasn't a cold.

* * *


	11. The Whispering Trees

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

**

**  
**  
It was so dark.

Characterised by gloom and lacking enlightenment or richness. That fog was back, gathering in cloudlike masses and lying close to the ground. So thick he could barely see his feet, walking slow and lamely. Not fully concioius of himself as his absent stare looked through his hanging hair - a state of mental vagueness and bewilderment. The path just carried on, like an unraveling ribbon thrown across the floor. It didn't seem to lead anywhere no matter how long he walked, and it seemed he had been slowly stalking the way for a lifetime. Ichabod stopped stiffly, his numb head returning feeling. Mind becoming aware of his environment and sensations, and own existence. He suddenly knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling. His mind desperately asked him where was, and how he got there - and his affective state telling him that he felt very, very cold.

'Hello?' He called out, his breath coming out like icy vapour infront of him. The trees, he had never noticed them until now - tall and leafless, standing like eery black stalks. Hiding a shadow behind them which stayed out of Ichabod's sight, that is until it wanted him to see.

_Sie werden Hilfe ..._

It was like the trees were whispering to him, like a thousand winds blowing. Clamorous and insistent.

_Mein kind .._

An innerborn force titled Ichabod's head level, coming face to face with fear itself - and it grinned wildly at him. The anguished constable's face was tight with his own terror, but he knew buckling and trying to flee the other way would do nothing. It certainly hadn't worked for him last time. With a very forced endurance, he tolerated the Horseman's presense. Trying so hard to make himself believe he was not weak, and that he could not be rode roughshod over whenever the damned undead felt like it.

'If you want to kill me, then just do it.' A quick death would be a mercy over these recurring visitations.

The Horseman was still grinning like a cheshire cat, standing quite still and looking at Ichabod, like he was looking for something. Ichabod looked down at his hands - no sword, no axe. Nothing. Nothing? His heart began to pound thrice harder, if the hessian had no intent to kill him then he had probably come back for a second helping of what he had savaged from him the last time. Swallowing, he looked back up at the horseman, who was slowly shaking his head at him and smiling. It was not a smile that told Ichabod all would be well and the horseman actually had no intent. It was an evil smile, that told him he would be picked to pieces within moments.

The undead suddenly moved and Ichabod flinched, turning his head away and waiting for his blood to smatter against the floor. He waited for pain, noise .. anything. But the only thing he felt was something surprisingly gentle, and it took him by surprise. His head slowly returned, afraid of what it might see. The Hessian was not looking level at Ichabod, his glance was cast down and his body was more or less where it was on last look. The only different was his arm, moved forward and black-gloved hand pressed against the constable's washboard-flat stomach. The look on his face something that both frightened and amazed Ichabod at the same time, a look of wonder and fondness. His hand caressing the surface with little force like it had feelings.

Ichabod wasn't sure what to do, what to think. Nor did he really want to think about what on earth the horseman was doing, his furrowed eyes looking at the deathly white presence as he smirked up at him, razor teeth flashing.

'Mein kind .. '

* * *

'Ichabod .. _Ichabod_, wake up .. '

A hand was gently shaking his sleeping body, which had been tossing and turning. His bedsheets sticking to him and his face flushed with heat. Katrina hadn't been able to sleep a bit, her thrashing fiance making her sick with worry and the bedroom to loud to sleep in. She had watched him until she could bear it no longer, shaking him and stroking at his dampened hair until his eyes shot open, wide from his jarred illusions.

Katrina lifted her hand off his, sitting up and looking down at him. 'Ichabod?'

' .. Katrina, what .. what is it?' Ichabod's voice shook beyond his control, 'What's the matter?'

'You were .. you were _saying_ things, Ichabod .. '

Shifting himself onto his elbows, Ichabod's eyes widened at her. '_What_?'

The young woman's spiralling hair was loose down her shoulders, almost hiding her moon face that was twisted with her troubling fuss. 'I don't know .. it, well .. it sounded like another language. You started whispering, I thought you may have been awake .. but then you got louder and louder, I was so worried.'

'Another _language_?' Ichabod repeated, the only words he could focus on. His hand grasped at the edge of the bed blanket, scrunching it tighter in the ball of his hand as he thought into it deeper. Maybe this was a clue, a shivery hint that might point the way to whatever it was the horseman wanted. Whatever could be done to be rid of the supernatural mercinary once and for all.

'Katrina,' He said, looking at her seriously. 'I need you to do something for me ... '

* * *


	12. Mein Kind

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

* * *

**  
**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

  
**  
It had been both a frenetic and tedious process, but the last few nights had paid off. Katrina had agreed, acting for him where he could not. For the past three nights she had lain awake and watched her fiance in disquitened sleep and listened, oh so carefully, with pen and paper in hand. Scrawling down in her small and neat italics every word Ichabod's muttered, as best as she could make out. It had meant a little while of insomniac nights for Katrina but it had all been valuably significant. Ichabod needed to know what was happening.

No sooner had his boots met with the weathered floorboards of the public house of New York's literary and artistic materials did Ichabod scan the room carefully with his eyes narrowed, making sure that he knew not a soul there. Nobody could know what he was doing, he didn't even know what he was doing himself yet. Inside the inner of his waist jacket were Katrina's notes, folded and tucked into his pocket and ready for assessment. Ichabod was taking the first step toward the prime grounds, he only prayed it was in the right direction. By now he had a suspicion that his illness had some tie to the Horseman, what had he done to him? What had he meant, in his dream that night?

The person responsible for the collection of materials, a practically white man with a wisp of hair on the peak of his head and the massive years behind him leaving him practically a corpse - the only sign of life being a flutter of a pulse in his vainy wrist, noticed Ichabod stoon aside the entrance of the library and decided to approach him. His voice a groaning croak. 'Sir? Is there something I can help you with?'

Ichabod faced the elderly man, feeling a little relieved to be approached by the specializing gentleman. 'Oh, yes actually .. I was wondering, well .._ hoping_, if you had some translative text or something like that?'

'Which language, to your precedence sir?'

'German.' He answered without delay.

The librarian nodded slowly, beginning to turn and beckoning Ichabod with a gradual curl of his long finger. 'Follow, sir.'

As he was lead down the avenue of dusty bookshelves, Ichabod delved into the catalogue of meditations inside his head. On that bit on crumpled paper, every scribbled word was familiar - and he knew what they were too. That chant - that incantation, that the Hessian had groaned at him in his hoarse voice. That had bothered him right away, if he was echoing it in the black of night then it must be strongly affecting the course of events. The elder attempted to make small and uninteresting conversation as he shambled his way infront of the young man, Ichabod giving him back occasional head nods as he pretended to give him his continued attention. His mind was elsewhere. Maybe he should have brought Abberline with him. No, maybe not. He had been so pleased about the doctor's rather quick diagnosis that had failed to convince Ichabod, it would be such a shame to dampen his spirits now - and especially over something as absurd as being seized and pillaged by a blood thirsty mercinary that died years and years ago. How Ichabod would have shook his head and chuckled if someone had proposed such a thing to him, he would have just thought it a joke. A wind up. A large part of him didn't expect any more from Abberline then that, not when he knew his own reaction would be so similar.

'Here we are.' The old man said, sliding out a wine-red book from the shelf when he stopped and offering it to Ichabod. 'For all your Teutonic transliterative needs.'

The constable took a hold of the spine of the book, it was impressively heavy for its' size. 'Thank you, sir.'

It was then the elder left him to it, and the unfolding could begin. Ichabod waited until he was completely out of sight before dropping the book down onto the desk infront of him, dust bursting out from between its pages as it hit the surface. He lowered into a seat, fetching out the creased note and smoothing it out on the table. Now with a candle lit as his side and an inkwell at his disposal, Ichabod flicked to the first page - having to swipe his hand over the page top at first to remove a layer of dusk masking the passages.

_Welches war abbauen Sie getötet werden. Sie gemordet mein Kind. Nun jetzt Sie werden Hilfe, und bringen mein Kind_, that was what his paper read. He frowned down at it, eyes wandering between the book and the note and his index finger dragging from word to word. Pen scribbling at every finding. Moments became minutes, and minutes became even longer stretches of time. Ichabod deep in work and studying in complete silence over the transcriptive text, hunched right over the book. He stopped occasionally just to wetten the tips of his fingers and re-touch the candle wick with a waiting match, the room beginning to dim as afternoon descended into night. He was perfectly poised throughout, head bent and eyes narrowed. They took in the individual words as he found them, not piecing together the entire phrase. Not yet anyway, he would read it in its entirety. At long last his finger tapped at the final word, locking it under his finger tip as he looked down at his writings. Finally, he was finished.

Ichabod took in a deep breath before he looked down to read over his completed notes, not sure where to be relieved of frightened witless. All this time and study, but would what he saw be what he needed to see? Was it going to be the answers he craved or another dead end in the endless maze of unknowing. His shaking hand lifted the paper close to his face, glaring at the words and reading carefully over the translated text written in his baroque handwriting.

'You will help me,' He read aloud, but in a hushed voice. To himself. 'What was mine you killed, you murdered my child.'

The constable frowned deeply at the words, repeating in confusion. 'I murdered his ..? _... What_?'

This was a befuddling moment if he ever saw it. For what he knew the horseman never had children, not any. Nor a wife for that matter, well, there was the Lady Van Tassel - and she had seen her death. Might she have been pregnant with the horseman's child? No, Ichabod dismissed that thought right away. The terror in the woman's face as the hessian forced his kiss on her was enough to know there had been no background discretions between them. Aside from the point, the Lady's death had not been Ichabod's fault - he knew that quite well. With a heavy sigh Ichabod decided his labours had been fruitless, standing himself up and beginning to pack away his inkwells and papers. Yet, when he picked up that one note holding the translations, he saw more that he had been quickly to dismiss. He read aloud again.

'Now you will help me ... ' Ichabod's voice trailed away as he silently went over the final pieces of transcript to himself. What he read struck him a new shade of pale, his eyes flaring wide down at the paper and his hand shaking violently. His head wildly shook, arguing with what transcribed was telling him. Standing had been a mistake, he knew any moment his legs would buckle beneath him any moment. It couldn't be true, it couldn't be true ..

His voice whispered the final, shaking with a new niche of pure horror. ' ..._ A-and carry my child_ .. '

Within that same breath and split second Ichabod fainted without delay, the piece of paper fluttering to the ground beside him.


	13. Spells

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

**

'Ah, Inspector Abberline.'

The man turned, drawing his cigarette away from his mouth and wisps of smoke leaving his mouth when he spoke. 'Yessir?'

The Burgomeister would be polite but firm. His senescent face wore an authoritive frown, his head held high aloof. 'I was hoping I could ask you something.'

'Wussat, sir?' Abberline said, dropping the thin roll with a flick of his fingers and crushing it into the ground with the tip of his boot. 'Do pardon th' terrible habit.'

'Quite alright,' The elder man replied in his low voice, though looking down at the quelled cigarette with an air of disapproval. He shot his eyes back upto the Inspector. 'I was going to ask if you had seen Constable Crane either today or yesterday.'

He looked thoughtful, but then shook his head. Replying truthfully, 'No, I 'aven't.'

'I shall not flower my words, Inspector. I am apprehensive for his health.'

'There's really no need, sir.' The Inspector answered confidently. 'He went the doctor just a few days ago and they told him 'e woz fine.'

'He told you this?'

Abberline realised that perhaps he shouldn't have said that, he shuffled in place. 'Yessir.'

'Well, regardless of what any doctor said the man is under par. His work performance has been suffering.'

Debating the Burgomeister and trying to remain subtle about it was becoming quite difficult, 'He'll be fine, sir.'

The look on the elderly charge's face was as grave as his voice, 'Let us hope, Inspector. Let us hope.'

* * *

It was the most inane thing ever, yet it answered so many questions. It made no sense. It made perfect sense.

The hour was lost. Perhaps it had gone midnight or perhaps it was much later, but that was not Ichabod's concern. He had long sinced revived and left the library, escaping to the quiet and seclusion of the riverside. The night hid him well as he sat at the water's bank, not bothering with his usual arched-back posture and biding limply, his arms wrapped around his hunched knees and eyes looking out at the water. The stillness, the silence - he needed it. He needed to think.

The entire dialectic argument that men could not bear children? Oh yes, Ichabod had thought long and hard about that. Even considering the possibility that he might be demented to entertain believing such a thing. Maybe he was. Perhaps the last few weeks had all just been inside his head and he was simply insane. Yet, whenever he felt a wave of queasiness or touched the bite scars on his neck - it all seemed real enough. The Horseman _had _raped him - he was _not _insane. The supernatural had once been a laughing matter to Ichabod, if he had run to himself and gushed the entire story he would he backed away and not believed a word. How cynical he would have been, he shivered at the thought. That chant, it must have been a spell of some kind - Ichabod's sharp mind had been quick to put that together. A worded formula of evil power, that had somehow granted the Hessian the ability to plant his seed. There was no denying that .. it was all true.

'No ... ' He buried his face into his knees, speaking through gritted teeth and shaking his head stiffly. ' .. It's _not_ true ... It's not .. '

Yes it was, he knew it was. Inside him, was a demon, planted there by a maligant spirit. Ichabod felt hot tears inside his eyes, 'Oh .. _God_ .... '

What to do now? With the hellhound's seed in him, what was it the horseman intended? Ichabod's reddened eyes stared out at the water, perhaps he could stop him. End it. Kill the monster, along with himself and be set free from the consequences of this immortal evil. It would be so simple, just move a little furthur down the bank and slide into the water and submerge himself for as long as it took. That was the unselfish thing to do, wasn't it?

His body shifted forward a little, his bent legs beginning to arch out. There was a look on his face that was dazed and rendered senseless, he had to do it. Letting a child of the horseman into the world was a sin over a sin. Before he could let the sole of his boot dip the water, a face faded into his head that looked so heartbroken. Face to his forehead, hiding his weeping face and dusky brown hair pushed back.

'Abberline .. ' Ichabod breathed, freezing. How could have let his lover slip his mind with thoughts like these? The thought of leaving Abberline behind with no-one else and the look on his face when he would have to identify his body .. God, it was a fate worse then death itself. He hesitantly, slowly drew his leg away from the water and sighed into his palm. It was between two alternatives, a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. Do away with himself and deny the horseman whatever it was he planned .. or stay with Abberline.

Oh Frederick ....

Even just his name was enough to touch Ichabod with the slightest comfort. How he wanted him here, holding him and telling him we just fine, like he had outside the doctor's office. All the sickness, fatigue .. down to _this_? No wonder the doctor misdiagnosed. Ichabod wanted to be taken back to just him and the Inspector, their brief times of peace together as they made their sweet love and thought of only each other.

* * *


	14. Circus of Noise

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

The laughter and whooping of the drunkards downstairs rose up through the floor in a series of muffles and deadened commotion. Rough, rowdy types who pleasured no more out of the city then to sleep rough and impair themselves legless stayed at this particular Inn. Why? Because it was cheaper than the up-market guest houses and because it was on New York's edge the owners were negligent, not to mention unconcerned of how high the noise levels became or how drunk their guests got.

On the higher floor was an aisle between two walls, almost abandoned. The only door that had been safekept shut gradually wept wisps of smoke from beneath it, the chamber inside slowly becoming consumed in thickening fumes. The Inspector sitting slumped over the edge of his barely-made bed and his head hung so low it nearly touched his knees. In one lazy hand, an unwritten blend of wonders rolled into a custom cigerette and in the other, a glinting reservoir glass with barely a drop left of what was a vibrant green verte. The circus of noise coming from downstairs didn't matter, his head and senses were far too numb to pay attention let alone care. The curtains were drawn, letting only a shard of dull daylight into the otherwise dark room.

Taking a slow and long drag with his head still down, he let his eyes fall closed as he breathed out nebules of uplifting grey. Behind his eyes, a yarn began to unwind. He watched placidly behind closed eyelids, like he were watching a film reel play. It began with a path, a path riddled with vines and dying flowers. It was proceeded by a stretch of black grass, the entire field was drained of its colour, completlely grey. The only colour he could see, was red. Bright crimson smattered in patches on the grass, smothering the flowers and stained against trees. So it wasn't a field, it was a woods. A woods smeared in blood.

Then, there was a yell. A distant but loud yell, so surprisingly shrill it challenged the scream of bloody murder. It wasn't uproarious or angry, but desperate. The voice behind the far-reaching cry was becoming familiar inside Abberline's head, the ghostly echo of it slowly beginning to face into that of Ichabod's voice. It made the absent Inspector's heart begin to hammer, he had never heard him let out such an ourcrying roar. Not just that but it sounded so likely that he was in some horrible pain, stopping between shrieking for some kind of course between exhausted whimpering and quick panting - and then, so suddenly there was a flash of silver and the sickening splatter of blood hitting against the tree leaves. Very faintly, there was what sounded like an infant crying.

With a start the Inspector jerked back into actuality, his fingers accidentally releasing the absinthe glass. It fell fast and smashed to pieces against the floor.

* * *

It would take another few days before Ichabod would have the strength to leave his bed. On top of being hit with every stone of physical sickness possible, he was frightened. Too frightened to wander outside his bedroom door. Too frightened to even breathe too loudly. His forthcoming wife had been vigilant, bringing him his daily breads and stroking his hand when he struggled to sleep. Oh naive Katrina, her innocent mind thinking he was just suffering a brief malady. Ichabod had flinched his eyes shut, tensing whenever she gushed she would nurse him back to health and he would be as good as new in no time. Not just because of what he knew, but because it was not her he wanted.

A morning when she had left to the market place with Masbeth, after he had worn a hole in his boots just a day previous, Ichabod saw it as his chance. Katrina had forced him bedridden, insisting he wasn't to lift a finger until he felt better. Sometimes she got so overwhelming he would just want to snap in her face that he was not ill at all and there was nothing she could do to save him from his plight. With caution he slid both legs from out under the bedsheet and touched his feet against the floor, silent as if he thought Katrina would flit in at any moment, force him back and wrap his sheets around him even tighter. But he needed to go, he needed air.

What in God's name next? Ichabod dreaded thinking about it, pulling his nightrobe over his head and tossing it away. As he fumbled for a shirt to wear, he caught a look at himself in the mirror - and stopped when he stood. His wide eyes were unable to tear away from his own reflection, sinking painfully slow down to the stomach. He began to stand straight, lifting his chest and shoulders and staring into the mirror. On his pin-trim frame he could just make out a very gentle curve, barely there. Feeling that light headed 'about-to-faint' feeling come on, he turned away. His chest rising and falling with a heavier panting. He wasn't insane, it was real. He turned his back to the mirror, looking down at himself with a grimace on his face. Good God, how frighteningly real it was. His fingers shakily pushed against it, like he could will it flat again. But the irregular growth wasn't soft and flex like the surface of his stomach normally was, it was hard and stubborn. Ichabod snatched his fingers away on some unprepared reflex, feeling his face become hot with overwrought and his legs quaking to the point where he was staggering backward like he were going to fall, escaping the fearful mirror echo of himself as fast as possible and his back at last hitting against his room wall. Ichabod leant against it, and stared bewilded into the mirror that refused to let him alone. So scarce and small yet he still cursed himself for not noticing it sooner, but there was no denying now what he feared realised.

Looking gravely across the room, his eyes landed on his desk where he would spend hour upon hour buried in a book with quill in hand. Mounted ontop of it was a stack of messily placed papers, all hastily written upon at Ichabod's hand but he had been too afraid to look at them so quickly, let alone make his judgements. Perhaps now would be opportune, no matter how much he didn't want to. Oh faithful pen to paper method, how many a decision had it made?

Ichabod took long strides to his desk, sweeping his arm effectively across its surface and the hill of papers flying out, fluttering down in a disorderly scatter. He lowered himself ontop his knees, spreading them out a little more freely with a careful, unfurling stroke of his hand. Hesitance kicked in almost immediately, the muddled constable staring down at the scattered notes as though they posed him harm. He felt like he was in a pit of snakes, each piece of paper writhing and waiting to snap at him. At last he took a deep breath and quickly snatched a paper from right infront his knees and held it upto his face. It read, '_Katrina_.'

Ichabod lowered the note, swallowing heavily. He just knew how his fiance would react, knowing that he had been attacked by the Horseman and she would of course want to know why he hadn't told her. And her entire response to that stimulus that he was with child, well, he dreaded thinking about it. He tore the paper up, Katrina couldn't know.

The next paper was slightly farthur, and in the scrawling pen ink it said, '_End it_.'

Putting a premature finish to his life Ichabod had definately been thinking about, the whole idea of letting himself be kin to something that shared Hessian blood was enough to make his own blood curdle. He didn't think of the unborn progeny inside him as a baby. _His_ baby. A child that was apart of him and that would rely on him to let it grow, live. No, he didn't think that way. He thought of it as a parasite. A demon that was invading his body and using it as its' shelter until it was strong enough to be done with him. It was a monster, using Ichabod's body as its' host - that was what he saw the wretched pregnancy as. A problem to be dealt with as soon as possible. He let the paper fall from his fingers onto his lap, keeping the option to be considered more.

The next paper said, '_Abberline_.'

Guilty as he was to fear his own fiance's reaction, it was the Inspector's opinion Ichabod truly cared about. So tempted he was to rip the paper to shreds, even making it as far as to pinch of paper corners like he wear about to tear. But the only problem was, Ichabod loved him. A profound fear of loosing Abberline to the evil truth filled Ichabod with a terrible dismay, it would be enough to destroy him completely. But he loved him too much to lie to him. Ichabod reluctantly set the paper down atop the other considered option, Abberline had to know.

Taking another note he looked down at it, a crease in the paper from how hard his fingers pressed. It read, '_Keep it_.'

Right away Ichabod harshly tore the paper in two. Keeping the baby - _raising _it, learning how to love it - was not an option.

* * *


	15. Better than the Truth

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**  
**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

  
**It reigned a shambles, was New York fated to a years unrelieved gloom and ailed skies along with its entourage of city people wandering with their stares earthbound? Abberline sluggardly pushed his was through the slow-moving populace thronging the streets, not at much of a difference himself. His fingers remained attached to a cigerette, sucking away at it like it were the sustainance that kept him breathing. Having escaped out of the satire and downright shivery that was his dreams, or intuitions as the oh-so-kind Sargeant had always said, he found himself with a smothered mind. What could have provoked such a perplexing vision, to hear his lover in such pain and his blood smattered across the first thing it hit? Even if he had wanted to ignore it, he knew the vile truth that it would never let him alone. His mind would sink elsewhere for a moment and the next be filched back by a riling cry inside his head. Not having the hang of the reign for his own collective perception was rotten enough, but to only lie and listen as the one dearest screams and do nothing but lively wake with a start? Perhaps not all of heaven's gifts were as golden as the monarchs and their hereditary rights polished them off to be.

'_Oof_!'

His sloathly performing body suddenly collided with something obstructing his path - or rather, someone. A clumsy clash that saw both Inspector and his colidee gasp in surprise and stumble more forward into each other. The body that had impacted against his was a small and delicately female frame, blonde curls shaking and her hand accidentaly releasing what she held. A pair of boy-sized property boots dropped and heavily hit and sank into a miserable and inconviently placed mud patch.

'Oh no!' The female cried, looking down helpless at the ruined boots.

'Jesus, I'm so sorry .. ' He began to spew, 'Here, lemme get those .. '

Upon dropping to a stoop and a closer examination the Inspector could tell the boots were quite beyond a quick wipe of the sleeve. He held them upto his face by the laces, face a grimace as he slowly began to stand. 'I'm s'sorry, miss .. if I'd 'ave just been lookin' where I was goin' .. '

She was already shaking her head, sighing. 'No, no .. it's alright, sir. I'll just return to the marketplace and come by another pair.'

'Well .. at least lemme do y' a favour, seeing as its me own clumsy fault.' Abberline delved his hand avoiding the cigerette into his pocket, removing from it a handful of wealth and muttering as he began counting it out. 'Bloody hapless Inspector can't even keep 'is head up while 'e's walkin' .. '

Yet, the young lady heard. 'Oh, you are an Inspector?'

'I am, miss.'

'Do you operate here, within New York?'

The Inspector continued flipping his fingers through his capital. 'For th' time bein', yes. Over at tha' watchhouse.'

'How lovely,' She remarked, pretty face a beam. 'My husband specializes there.'

'O'really.' Abberline's efforts to keep the small conversation along were merely for a consideration for social usage. Though his interest had long since grown wings and flown away. 'Wha's yer husbands name?'  
She smiled bashfully. 'Well .. I say husband, but we are not actually marrying for another few months. He designates himself as Constable Crane, perhaps you know him?'

A cold blood suddenly began to run through Abberline's veins, ceasing his counting of the money and actually taking his first good look at the girl. This must have been her. Fresh and youthful, a glint in her large bronze eyes and gilded pale hair half-ribboned behind her head and the rest of her ringlets fleely flowing. Katrina. 'Constable Crane, did y'say?'

'Yes, do you know him?' The girl repeated with a small smile.

To look as inconspicuous as possible was of the essense, Abberline giving a subtle shrug of his shoulders as though it mattered to nought. 'Ye' I know, through work.' He decided to ask a vulnerable question, keeping casual. 'I uhm, .. notice he ain't been in the last few days .. '

Katrina tried not to show her worry, but her smile lost its strength. 'Oh, well .. he has been a little bit under the weather.'

'How is 'e?' The Inspector asked without thinking.

'I've kept him bedridden Inspector. He is in poor health.'

The Inspector's arm had slackened by its own endeavours, leaning out the hand holding the coins and accidentally presenting his profferings to her. She mistakenly took this as his asking pardon and her dismissal, tipping her hand into his and accepting the ready with a polite smile.

'Thank you, Inspector. Good day to you.'

With that, Katrina flit away and left the silenced Inspector to his own. Bedridden for days, that was what the young and naive girl had said. The scrap of forlon hope the Inspector had been holding onto for the constable's health dried and withered like suddenly struck by drought. So his relief had been for nothing and Ichabod was sick with something that was rendering his body feeble and his spirit low. He experienced a spasm of regret, recalling how dear constable had worried he was dying. Perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn't. Abberline didn't want to know him confined to his bed. He wanted to see him_ now_, he wanted to apologize to him _now _and even stronger he wanted to be the person taking care of him _now. _Yet life was not a succession of urgent nows. It was a listless trickle of what a man could and couldn't do.

The Inspector loitered his cigerette between his lips before slowly dragging it away, muttering curse words under his smoky breath.

* * *

'What's your hurry, Constable Crane?'

Ichabod stopped dead, his lips apprehensively parting and a faint-hearted look blanching his face. He knew that authoritive, grave voice anywhere. No, he couldn't stop. He just knew that he would be kept if he turned now. Yet as he considered charging on, he was startled as the voice boomed at him again, his sharply straight shoulders giving an involuntary flinch.

'_Kindly_ face me when I am talking to you, constable.'

There was no escaping him. With no real attempt to hide his sigh Ichabod began to turn, squaring in the direction of the gentleman that demanded his attention so strongly. His voice came out as weak as he was timid, 'Burgomeister.'

The man strode closer to him at his leisure. 'I do hope I am not disturbing you.'

'No, sir .. ' Ichabod lied. 'I was just headed to the watchhouse.'

'Don't bother, constable.' The Burgomeister interposed sharply, throwing himself between Ichabod's words. 'I am relieving you of your duties.'

'S-sir?'

'At least for the time being. Do not think I haven't noticed your declining wellness.'

Ichabod swallowed awkwardly, trafficed in a way to break loose from the confinement the elder charge had him in. 'I am fine, sir .. '

'Don't talk balderdash, constable. Do not undo yourself by arbitrariness and constable now, you shall return home and regain your rest, and that is an order. Are we quite clear?'

Arguing with this man forever proved useless, 'Yes sir.'

'Very good, a good evening to you.' The Burgomeister turned and began to descend away, before turning which caught Ichabod off guard, startling him again. 'And constable?'

'Y-yes, sir?'

'I don't want to see you at the watch house again until you are fully recovered, understood?'

'Understood, sir.'

Scarce were the hopes of ever seeing the watch house again on those conditions. He could feel his breath caught in his chest, breathing quite hoarse. The waist jacket he had always worn was tightly constricting him, like a snake killing prey. Getting dressed in his usuals had proved somewhat more difficult, especially the buttoning up of the jacket. How he had strained the buttons to force them together over his faintly growing stomach. And how tightly it was holding him in now. The garment strong-armed his middle like some kind of corset, which was so strange considering the jacket was a well known favourite to Ichabod. He let out a deep breath difficultly, aching for the relief of taking it off. For now, he was just grateful he could hide it. For now.

'Crane!'

Oh no, more unwanted attention. No, wait - not so unwanted afterall. When Ichabod turned he could see his Inspector rushing toward him, a desperate relief on his face.

'Abberline?'

'Saws you across the way an' nearly was tempted to boot the bloody Burgomesiter out me way!' The Inspector stopped just infront of him, smiling to the point where he was near laughing. 'I was .. I was told y'woz bedridden?'

'I _was_.'

'How ar'y feeling?' Abberline asked genuinely, hand fondly rested on Ichabod's arm. The constable flinched slightly, how was he feeling indeed. Apart from his stomach lurching like churned butter and his head everlight, there was what he knew so profound. A wall of wretchedness that welcomed those who wanted to batter their heads against in a live long moment. Ichabod had been left almost four months a prey to his own melancholy reflexions - sad companions indeed; nor did he let any one break in upon his solitude but Abberline. Often had the constable thought to his perfidious seducer from Lucifer's flames, and with the most persuasive eloquence endeavoured to convince himself all would smoothe itself out. But inside he knew, it was lies. Lies that were much better than the truth.

He gradually slid away from Abberline's hand, 'I must speak with you.'

'As long as y'dont cut half way through and toss yer biscuits into a hedge that's fine with me.' The Inspector said with jest, finishing with a bit of a chuckle. The comment flustered Ichabod right away.

'Can you not be serious for just a _moment_?' He said, bitterness stroking his voice.

Abberline raised his brow, 'Who rattled _your_ cage?'

'I'm not rattled,' Ichabod said, smoothing himself out and gaining somewhat of a composure. 'I am _fine_.'

'Don't look that way, Katrina said you woz still sick.'

Ichabod's eyes bulged at him, 'You saw Katrina?'

'Well ... '

'And you _spoke_ to her?'

'Will you keep yer bloody head on?' The Inspector threw in. 'I didn't say a 'fing about us. We bumped into each other by accident, I didn't know who she woz until I'd already spoken to 'er.'

'Yet you spoke of me, and my _sickness_?' Ichabod's voice snapped in.

'Well seein' as I never_ see _you maybe its a good 'fing _she's_ tellin' me how you are!'

'Do you think in all these weeks I haven't given you five minutes thought?'

Abberline scoffed and rolled his eyes, 'Five minutes! Fuckin' generous wanker aren't ye.. '

'Do _not_ slander me, Abberline!'

'Well what th'hell else am I meant to do? If you'd bloody just tell Katrina I wouldn't 'ave to be walkin' round New-bloody-York on me toes and why the _fuck_ you haven't called off yer engagement yet I don't know .. ' His voice trailed away, eyes narrowing on Ichabod. ' .. Unless y' don't really love me.'

'Frederick - for God's sake, _stop_ it!'

'Why are you bein' like this wiv' me? 'Ave I done sumfin to you?'

Ichabod was already shaking his head, on the brink of tears. Here let him hide his shame and sorrow, here let him spend his remaining days in obscurity, unknown and unpitied, here let him die unlamented, and his name sink to oblivion. 'You haven't done _anything_, just listen to me .. '

'What's there left t'say, other then an answer to a question I 'ave been _dyin_' to ask? Nufin', thats what!' The Inspector's voice was raising louder and louder with each word, a crimson glow rushing over his cheeks. 'Why you ignorin' me, and _why_ won't you see me? Ichabod? _Ichabod_?!'

'I'm _pregnant_, Abberline!'

Something like desperation awakened inside Ichabod by his aggresive speech, trying to tense as much he could but in the end becoming weak and letting it burst out from him. Never did any human being wish for death with greater fervency or with juster cause; yet just as strongly he longed for understanding. Alas poor Abberline, how confined was his knowledge of human nature, or he would have been convinced that the only way to insure the sureness of his surrounding acquaintance was to convince them he did not require it, for when once the petrifying aspect of distress and penury appear, whose qualities, like Medusa's head, can change to stone all that look upon it.

' .. What?'

Ichabod didn't dare look at him, his lips thinly tensed together. 'I will not say it again.'

'Ichabod .. I 'fink you need a lie down .. ' The Inspector said gently, which caused Ichabod to break.

'Don't you _dare_ pity me, Frederick! Think I am insane if you will but first - !' He snatched his hands for the Inspector's wrists without warning and forced them onto his midsection, where his waist jacket stiffened his breath and held him in most uncomfortably. Abberline was sure Ichabod had lost his mind, until he shifted his hand slightly and felt that Ichabod's stomach was not as flat as it appeared in its' dark curtains. He glared at both his hands with curiosity immediatly, willing enough for the constable to release his wrists and let him wander. The Inspector only examined for a moment, his hands moving along the curve shaping Ichabod's stomach and snatching away almost instantly, Ichabod bowing his head in silence as Abberline stared at him with a blow that penned nought but senseless, overwhelmed and dazed.

' ... Jesus christ .. '

* * *


	16. Just Breathe

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

****

I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

WARNING NO,2; THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SELF HARM.

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

  
**  
'Y'need to tell me every'fing that happened.'

'Why have you brought me here?' Ichabod looked over his shoulder wearily, the air having the odour of musk and the room dim. Gathered at the serving counters and swarming together in wolf-like packs were men who seemed habitually drunk. Throwing their heads back and howling like hyenas and chasing the first thing in a dress. The place was clearly uncared for by the city's state, being quite small and bearing strong marks of poverty.

'A man can sit back in a pub,' The Inspector muttered, stubbing his cigerette into the table surface. 'An' I need a bloody drink.'

The poor man had sentiment, 'What do you want to know?'

'Every'fing.'

Ichabod bowed his head, muttering. 'You won't believe a word I tell you.'

'Crane,' Abberline said firm but quiet, leaning into the table slightly for discretion. 'Y'tell me that your .. ' He failed as his voice muttered away, trying again. ' .. that your _pregnant_ and I 'aven't run the other way yet 'ave I? I 'fink I can hold on abit longer.'

Ichabod was leaning in himself, bid to enter back into the conversation by a voice melodiously soft. 'You'll hold on while I tell you of my attack and inside me grows a child beget from_ Hell_?'

'What .. ?'

'You see?' The constable leant back into his seat, his head reclining in his hand. 'You are as lost as me.'

'No, wait a fuckin' moment .. ' The Inspector shifted his seat around the table edge until his and Ichabod's chair were a breath apart, looking at him intensely. 'What d'you mean .. you woz _attacked_?'

The constable bowed; his heart was too full to permit him to speak; his mouth dry at difficult words, and hastened to relate the cause of his sorrows to his good friend. A regret was heavy on him for snapping in such a way what he was unprepared. Vexed to the soul that such a misfortune be lost to, determined to offer himself at last. 'Do you believe there is an afterlife?'

The Inspector found this an uninvolving question but answered to humour him, 'Ye', I do.'

'And do you believe that the dead can rise up and force themselves upon the living?' He quietly said, finely drying his tears as the Inspector listenen patiently and at length unsure of what to say, believe. Yet to just listen was a pledge of their mutual love and who, at the earnest entreaty was permitted to let him continue unanswered.

Ichabod lowered his sleeve before letting himself speak again, determined for the scoundrels around not to see the red in his eye. 'I ... I believe that a spell was cast on me, so .. so that when he seized me into submitting to him he could make me this way.'

'_He_?'

He looked at the Inspector, 'Yes, he. A devil fresh from the fire.' His voice was grim, as was his face as he felt his waist garment squeezing him yet again. 'And you can guarentee his child will be a cut from the cloth.'

Abberline was massaging his frowning forehead, trying liberally to understand. In affairs of love, a young heart is never more in danger than when attempted by the woes of the loved. 'Awright, awright .. first things first .. you fink a spell was cast on you?'

'I _know_ a spell was cast on me.' He muttered.

'And .. y'r going to actually_ have _the .. ?' Abberline wasn't sure whether to call it a baby, his voice trailing off.

The levity of Abberline and the freedom of their conversation weakened him, his voice breaking inbetween. 'I could_ gladly _choose death over it.'

'Don't talk like that.'

Ichabod, though astonished at the liberties Abberline was permitting himself to take, grew thoughtful and tired. And heartily wished himself at home again in his own chamber. 'The ghost, I knew him. Once.'

'How?'

'That is another story for another day, Abberline.' Ichabod said. 'I do not want to scare you off too far.'

The man sighed as he downed his pint, forcing back some hypocrtical tears. He thought he would be the once to encourage his hopes and calm his fears before they parted for the night. Yet it was not so simple. At the very least numbing himself drink after drink helped.

'Do you believe me?' The constable said meekly, watching as the last of the ale drained from the Inspector's glass. Do you think I am mad?'

Lowering the pint glass, Abberline lost once sight of the basis on which reputation, honour and everything that mattered was. He grew hardened guilt, and a bemused sense. There was nothing left to say as he patted Ichabod's knee beneath the table, giving him a weak and completely unspontaneous smile.

* * *

Various were the sensations which agitated the mind of the Inspector, during the day preceding the evening in which he finally arrived home. Well, home being the poverty that was the guest house. He rested against the door following him as it closed shut, staring into space. He believed Ichabod, what reason would he have not to? The evidence was there, physical and bone hard. Yet it had taken time to sink deeper into his own heart. There was still a more forcible reason to still remain, and he knew what that was. Several times did he almost resolve to submitting to his favourite absinthe, but he had taken one step away and decided that he would return to the comforts of the detriment.

He shambled over to his bed, slumping heavily like there were not another breath left in him and head mostly buried in his lame pillow. The mind of the young man caught a good grasp on mental fatigue and and too late it was to avoid it, even as he visited the comfort of his matress. He thought not of the dangers lurking in his head nor the liberty that awaited him on his bedside drawer, but he thought most feverishly of himself. Selfish, he knew well but he just couldn't help it. Children, such a sensitive subject. By now he should have been the undisturbed father of a boy of four, such lamenting and deeply deplored grieving. And Victoria, the truth was he was rid of her but far from free. He was a victim of infamous arts and the curse of intuitions. Now Ichabod, and what role could Abberline possibly play in his life now that he would be busied with a child? Well, perhaps busied was not the correct word to use. The constable had expressed he had no plans to raise the baby should he somehow go through with birth. Even more profoundly low he had been forced on by some spirit and there was nothing Abberline could have done. So useless, so unprotecting of the one he cared for.

His hand began to creep at his drawer and grapple his favoured tool, lightly stained the edge. The Inspector scarcely found himself holding his breathing, waiting to satisfy and release. Exhulting in his own great misforture, and Ichabods' too, he dared look into the shining blade with contempt and a quiet sigh passing his lips. As long as he breathed, as long as he just breathed. All would clear. He began to savour the leaving of the numb as the dagger lesiurely dragged across his forearm.

'Just breathe .. '

* * *


	17. Spring

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

****

I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

  
**All these obstacles and difficulties had rendered him tenfold enfeebled and more guarded; it was more than a fortnight since he had last seen the watch house. But he was troubled and anxious still at the recollection of the uncommon gravity in the Inspector's face. The tear that trembled in his eye whenever he saw him and the heavyness in his voice. Yet with the benignant aspect of an angel of mercy did Abberline still spend time with him and even try to ignore his scattered spirits. When Ichabod got home he endeavoured to collect his thoughts, and took a quill in order to address disbanded reflections onto paper. He was disturbed as the moment he walked through the door, Katrina was waiting. Face flushed with an unhappy blush.

Ichabod slowly turned away from the door, uneasy by the way she was looking at him. 'Katrina .. ?'

'When were you going to tell me?'

A new niche of fear struck into him, cutting deeper than any knife. A full sense of his own situations rushing into his head, 'P-Pardon?'

'Why did you feel you could not just tell me?' She passionatly, with an unhappiness.

Ichabod could already feel that dreadful sense of defeat. 'K-Katrina .. I .. I ... didn't ... '

She interrupted him with a sigh, shaking her head.'No, Ichabod. Do forgive me I am probably getting upset over just nothing .. '

'.. Katrina?' He furrowed his brow, weary now.

She re-assumed the look of tender, consolatory friendship. 'I am pleased that you listened to me and visited the doctor, but I would have gladly come with you darling.'

Katrina produced a letter from behind her back, re-rolled front once she read it. 'I received this during the forenoon from a Doctor Rolfe, he says you visited him and were diagnosed with a cold?'

Relief fell upon Ichabod's chest as he dared breath at last. 'Y-Yes, yes. I went to see him.'

'I know you don't like to worry me, but no knowing about my fiance's health worries me more.' She began to faintly smile, her tension disappearing. 'He asks that you return to him, would you like my to accompany you this time?'

Ichabod's answer was unhesitant. 'No. Uhm.. I mean, no .. Katrina. I will go alone.'

Disheartened, she was. Her smile lessened strength, but she nodded nonetheless respectively. 'Well, will you at least let me know what he tells you?'

'Of course,' Ichabod replied falsely, quick so that he might make past her and snatch the note from the doctor along the way. For now, she was no longer an object of fear. It was true for several weeks she constantly was watching him, and his moreso pale appearance lacking an adequate amount of physical strength worried her to no end. Though through fear of agitating him, her askings of how he felt and how he was became less frequent. Katrina could see the strength of Ichabod's constitution slowly fade and watch as he still laboured under a violent depression of spirits. She looked on after him sadly, as he disappeared up the stairs. Who could form an adequate idea of the sorrow that preyed upon the mind of Ichabod Crane?

* * *

All through the flow of the day he mechanically went through his duties, or rather what had become his duties. Acting and coursing through customs of uselessly sitting in bed and sipping undesired soups, divided between the faint joy at the prospect of seeing his adored Abberline again, and the anxiety respecting the child inside him. Every day was becoming a constant battle of how to hide himself, and became harder with the passing weeks. He no longer had just a gentle curve that could be subtly hidden with a slightly larger shirt. His stomach once flat had become somewhat more protruded, a more rounded bulge that could be noticed easily on his otherwise trim frame were he not careful enough. Desperate measures were taken and he had unfortunately found himself pilfering away one of Katrina's corsets and tying them around himself as tight as the laces would go, not allowing an inch of slack. It hurt horribly and it made breathing difficult, but he would much rather that than wander out exposed. What mattered was that he had managed to somewhat smoothe himself out and, along with afew extra layers of clothing, he knew he was hidden. The day brought with it the promise of visiting Rolfe which made his heart beat with mingled emotions, it was a risky stunt and he doubted a doctor would be fooled. The letter had evidently been written afew mornings before, and told him that he would be expecting him for a verification to determine if he were recovering well enough at five o'clock that evening.

As the clock began to strike seventeen hundred hours, Ichabod felt his stomach lurch as he stood before the door to Rolfe's office. Every chime of the clock was like a thunder strike in the sickeningly silent room. Finally, he turned the handle and entered.

'Ah, constable. ' The doctor was sitting full in his seat, grinning politely beneath his tufty beard.

'Doctor Rolfe, sir.' He bowed his head, letting the door close behind him.

Rolfe indicated the seat opposite his desk eagerly with a few strokes of his hand, 'Sit, constable. Do sit.'

Ichabod did as ordered, attempting to let his tension and stiffened breathing disappearing into unsubstantial air. Failing on first effort, of course. The doctor spoke again, noticing the constable wearing a somewhat more thicker coat than the last time and beneath medley of looser shirts. 'Why are you wearing so much in the brink of autumn, constable?'

The constable used an already conceived lie, 'I feel not the heat, doctor. Apparently I am quite ill.'

'I see,' Rolfe began to stand. 'Well, you can shred away those layers, sir. I shall be needing to examine you.'

The constable's wildly flared eyes followed up the standing man, his body uncomfortably warm under all the clothes. 'I .. I beg _pardon_?'

'Yes, I shall need to be determining the quality of your physical health since our last meeting.'

'But .. but, no obervation was taken the _last _time .. !' Ichabod's voice smacked of desperation, and Rolfe could smell if off him. Trying to steer him away, the constable could see, would do to no good - a fluster showing flushed on his face as he difficultly just tried to come out with it. 'D-Doctor Rolfe, there is .. there is something I need to tell you, I -- I-I'm .... '

' .. Pregnant, constable.' Rolfe said quite calmly, infact - he was even gently smiling. 'I know.'

Close. Ichabod's jaw was very closely, nearly earthbound, as if he didn't know for himself. He shakily stood with the doctor, 'I .. I don't understand, how?'

It was no more a question of how more than it was a question of the sky being blue; Rolfe knowing well that the young man meant how in God's name did he come to comprehend and understand. 'I will not pretend I wasn't shocked when I first discovered, sir. I read book upon book and racked my brains until they scattered in my head, but a medical man just cannot afford not to make himself know matters such as these.'

Of course.

'.. So I learnt to adjust to the idea and requested that I might see you; perhaps to get a better grasp of it myself as well as discover the baby's progression.'

Ichabod's face wanted to grimace, he even felt it begin to twist. It was always odd hearing the creature growing in the pit of him described as a baby; an unborn young. He knew defeat, shredding away his layers behind him. Unzipping and unbuttoning, reluctantly slow too. His conduct was hesitant and modest, Rolfe mildly engaged as he peeled away his higher skins. Eventually introduced to the protrusion of the young constable's stomach; the doctor said nothing, merely taking a step closer to him.

'Hmm .. ' Rolfe lay his hands upon Ichabod's person, making him flinch at the touch of his cool hands. 'Amazing how much it immitates that of a female pregnancy, wouldn't you say?'

It was wise that Ichabod did not answer beyond a mumble; amazing would certainly not be a choice wod for him. He stood pin straight still as the doctor felt around his stomach with his meddling hands.

'The father?'

Ichabod blinked and finally decided to look down at him, as though surprised. 'Pardon?'

The doctor repeated in almost the same voice, 'The_ father_, is there one?'

An unkindness hatched in Ichabod's soul that his face blankly hid well, a scorpion in his heart whose venom embittered every glint in his black eyes. 'Feasibly, sir.'

The doctor misunderstood. 'Well, when would you imagine you conceived?'

Now there was a leading question that Ichabod hadn't thought much about; a new interesting recollecting his face and seeing a melancholy so conspicuous in his countenance; heart bleeding with reflection. The more he thought of th Hessian and his seed he knew; all that was valuable in life he would lose, he would be doomed to linger out a wretched existence in a strange land, and sink broken-hearted into an untimely grave. Inside him, he carried his own downfall - and this doctor was asking him when he had _conceived_ this dreadful burden? 'The plants .. '

'Pardon, constable?'

'The flowers, they were in bloom .. perhaps it was spring time - _Ow_!' Ichabod shrank back sharply, holding himself in his own arms and looking right at Rolfe. 'What was that?'

'By the looks of it, constable - I would say you baby just kicked you.'

A frown buried on his brow, ' .. _Kicked_?' He spoke like it were impossible. Alarmed at this strange feeling of realization overthrowing him, a drop of pure human emotion in his face.

'Yes, movement through form of kicking normally occurs from the twenty second week of pregnancy.'

'T-_twenty two_ weeks?' The constable stammered, head bowing to quickly take a look at himself. He had remembered seeing himself so much smaller than now, a glow of conscious alarm and shame vermillioned on his face. Both his hands on either side of himself without him thinking.

The doctor stood, 'Actually, sir. From examination, I would say you had fargone that mark. You seem roughly brushing the sixth month. Now, you say you may have conceived in spring time?'

Ichabod, though naturally polite and well-bred, was so confused and lost he could hardly speak. He quickly saw he was holding himself at the growth of his stomach, and shot his hands away like it were a forbidden sin. ' .. Y-yes .. spring.'

The doctor guessed the source from whence that flusted came, remaining at a calm himself. 'Had you a sexual partner around spring?'

His answer was quiet, 'Yes.'

'Well then, perhaps there is your answer.'

And a tear fell. Unfortunately for Ichabod, he knew the father of his baby roared with the song of hellfire. The one that had awakened his spell upon the mortal favoured that his child take possession of him and grow like a parasite to host. All then he had needed to do was plant; and he had the moment Ichabod had left his Inspector. The selfish passion taking his heart had lead to his encounter with the damned horseman. Seizing his mind and heart so suddenly Ichabod gazed ahead earnestly, his pale lips trembling with a convulsive agony. After Abberline had come the Hessian. After. Alarming thoughts now succeeded each other, conveying Ichabod to cover his mouth in shock as he near got down and prayed for the Lord to spare some mercy on his cursed life. The burning blush of indignation and shame tinged his cheek while he thought, a disgrace to humanity that the injured Ichabod yet at the same time attracted him to some scrap of faint mercy.

There was an even handed chance that his beloved Frederick was the father.

* * *


	18. Seconds to Midnight

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

_Chime, chime;_ ten seconds to midnight.

Night time became a cautious process, a time to be attentive of potential dangers when it came to sharing the less accurately marital bed with fair lady. He always made sure she was first to fall asleep, sitting up against the headboard and in vain skimming over one of his many books, pretending to hold interest to it until she laid her head down on the pillow and began her soft breathing. Sometimes it would consume a torturesome amount of time, the man keeping to his facade religiously and treading around any conversation his fiance attempted to try. It was too dangerous to loose control, one wrong touch or holding arm would tell her all. Blowing out the candle wick, Ichabod set his own heavy head down into the soft solace of his pillow. Back turned away from her.

_Chime, chime;_ six seconds to midnight.

What could he do now .. ?

_Chime, chime._

What could he .. what could he ...

_Chime .. chime .. chime .. chime .._

* * *

Slow and heavy passed the time. It would be vain to attempt describing what Ichabod felt whilst he steadily stepped through the dark, assuming a look of firmness and composure but secretly he was un-nerved to be wandering around in the night's black now unacommpanied. The path riddled with loose and uneven paving stones, suddenly ended into a pitch of very green, fresh grass. Ichabod's furrow lifted into admitting acknowledgement, his eyebrows high on his forehead as he narrowed his eyes ahead. Mother of Mercies. Once more he read of his unease again as he perceived the picturesque structure before his eyes, fitting to the pale sky up above that was barely visable between stretching blanches that let flutter to the world below even paler blossom leaves. He slowly turned, unsure of what to expect then a sound striking his heart. A soft sigh, involuntarily stopping him. The silken soft skin of a feminine hand pressing against the side of his face to gain his glance. What poignant reflections does a man endure who sees such a lovely woman plunged in infamy, conscious of her face as she basked in heaven's glow? It was an angel before his eyes.

'Mother .. '

A smile radiated her face, glowing with a pure love. Her gently brown eyes settled on Ichabod as he nestled his cheek deeper into her palm, half-closing his eyes and spending just a moment enjoying her, and the otherwordly warmth of her skin.

'Is this a dream?' He whispered into her wrist.

His spirited mother was as kind as she was preserved, her form still as lovely as nature could make it. 'My dear son, you really have become everything I hoped you would become.'

Ichabod looked at her, unmoving from her hand. 'I have become no such.'

Her smile was unwavered, stroking her thumb against his cheek. 'You're no longer my curious little wonder, Ichabod. Being here now, seeing the enlightened, broad-minded man you have become warms my heart.' She laughed a little. 'And so handsome too!'

His own voice didn't come above a mutter, 'You seem as young and pure as I had last seen you.'

'I used to always think you had a look of your father about you.' The Lady quietly replied.

Ichabod started in the form of an astonished blink, he had not been expecting that. 'Of the millions of things I thought we would have to say to each other .. '

'No, no darling, it was a thought I once kept fondly,' She said, voice descending into a sigh. 'How I had loved your father.'

'Mother, do not tell me you have forgiven him .. '

She smiled sadly, shaking her head. Her flowing her shaking with her. 'I did not come to speak about me, my dear. A mother's love for her child is a force so much stronger than death.' Her hand left his face, a look so soft on her face it refused to imagine her beauty once punctured in the horrors of the maiden. Ichabod let free a shaking breath as he knew where she was resting her hand, over his unborn. 'I came because you needed me.'

His voice was heavier than it once was, 'There is nothing you can do for me.'

'Darling, it was no more the child's fault than it was your own.' The Lady said, full of this determination to fight his demons. 'I know what you have been considering.'

Ichabod's head bowed, his heart was too full to permit him to speak; he gaze between mother and son broken and hesitating to relate the cause of his sorrows to his dear parent. 'I have considered many things .. '

She broke into his words, ' .. And I beg of you, do not prematurely take away the life I gave you. You've so much to live for.'

Unfortunately for Ichabod, he thought quite otherwise. The conversation discovered to him the situation of his heart; and he found that the most free future would bring no increase of happiness unless Abberline shared it with him; and the knowledge of horrors that plagued him, and the integrity of his own heart, made him shudder at the idea that had started, of bringing a child into the world without knowing whose blood it shared for no other reason than some clinging chance at hope. The splendor the man to whom his heart was devoted was much to precious a thing to risk; and yet so delicate already to the amount it had been chizzled down. If the baby was fathered by the Inspector and be the event what it might, Ichabod would entirely offer his heart, and hand, to Frederick Abberline.

Yet, that frightening possibility of he or she being begetted by the Hessian. Ichabod found his hand already settled over his mother's that lay on his stomach.

'Would should I do?'

'You are my knowing boy, the answers will come.' The Lady said.

'I would not be able to live with myself if I let myself bear the Horseman's child.'

His mother's hand returned to his cheek, 'Are you so sure it is the horsemans'?'

He shook his head, 'I don't know. I don't know .. '

'Alright, alright my love, shh.' The kind mother dotingly took her son in her arms and cradled his head against the side of her own. Rocking him and hushing into his dark hair as he began to choke sobs. 'I will watch over you.'

The distressed young man dried away his tears with a wipe of his cuff, listened patiently, and at length declared she believed the surest method to his future. He would accept for now and so said be done, clinging to her like a frightened child. 'If only you knew how many times your face has haunted my dreams .. '

The fair woman was just as stubborn not to let him go, 'You were always in my heart, my darling. Ever still.'

'Don't leave me.'

'I never have left you, darling .. and I never will.'

When Ichabod woke he felt the blurring sting of tears in his eyes and the dried trails of those that fell on his cheeks; thinking he might have arisen early to enjoy the beauties of the morning yet he hadn't the strength to remove himself from him bed, Katrina sleeping soundly beside him still. Such was his late mother, the only pledge of mutual love he still felt. No, that was only half true. A man of an indifferent attitude, will, when arrayed in a lawful habit, shew to advantage; but when beauty of person, elegance of manner, and an easy method of paying compliments, are united to the plaid coat, unkempt hair, and charming grin. He did not know whether to heed his mother's word or not; he did not know how to love the child as his own and still he feared for the worst. Establishing trust was difficult to comprehend, especially in himself.

_Chime, chime._

The clock began to strike morning.

* * *


	19. Vain Illusions

**Disclaimer.**

**I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**Author's Note - '_Schutzmann_' means _'Constable' _in German.**

* * *

Pleasure was a vain illusion; drawing a person on to a thousand follies, errors, and dare say vices, and then leaves them to deplore their thoughtless credulities. What about then mediocrity, that deep and dark feeling that one is ever alone? No visit from a beautiful sprit could possibily heighten every blessing he enjoys by informing him how grateful he should be to that bountiful providence who might have placed him in the most abject situation; and, by teaching him to weigh his blessings against his sorrows, show him how much more he receive than he had a right to expect.

But was it _right_? She made it seem so, every velvet soft word confident for him. The long-expected draught strongly tinctured with the bitter dregs of axiety. She had seen it in him in too through a mothers solicitude eyes - along with his wan cheek, sunken eye, and air of chagrin, whichever they each marked affright. Ichabod was fast approaching his eight month now, and yet still he had not told Abberline that there was a possibility the child could be his - and hiding himself from Katrina was becoming harder and harder. The undercorsets had become tighter and his carefully chosen clothes were becoming looser, luckily he was kept fairly neat in that area so there was no major urgency. Yet what about the soon coming? Enough it was that Katrina would find out of his fornications but to let this woman, she who had lightened his labours, presided at his frugal board, and watched his disturbed slumbers, be crushed under a newer burden. He truthfully did not know if her dear little heart could take it, and he knew as he frowned down at the book he was pretending to be interested in, that it was all his fault.

And the baby? In truth Ichabod was unsure what to feel about it any more. There was a time he hated it with a fire, thinking without a doubt it was begotten by the Hessian - yet now there was nothing. He could not love it, he could not hate it. Of all the pleasures of which the human mind was sensible, there was none equal to that which warms and expands the heart, then if the child was the Inspector's. Inspector. Hessian. Hessian. Inspector. The names ran over in his head again and again until they lost all meaning. There was no knowing whose baby would enter the world in almost a month's time, in the mean time every enquiry that could be thought of was made by Ichabod for many days, weeks. He indulged the fond hope the child was not the Horseman's, and though bowed to the earth even with shame and remorse for leaving home that night, was it not his duty to raise the poor babe and whisper peace and comfort to his or her little soul? With rapture would he fold Frederick to his heart, and bury every remembrance of his faults in the dear embrace, but a baby that could or could not be his?

Ichabod sighed heavily as he closed the book over and looked down at it glumly, he didn't know.

'Good evening,'

The voice, though subtle and calm demanded Ichabod's attention. It gained it too, Ichabod's head looking up and any of his own calm extinguished right there, declaring it a moment to be alerted as he jumped up from his seat - the chair flying onto its back behind him, as he staggered back with panic until his own back crashed into a bookcase behind him. Dust erupting upto the ceiling as it hit slightly against the wall. The one before him represented as a villain. An evil demon. Ichabod wished for nothing more than an opportunity to leave this course of life which his soul abhorred; but he had no way out to apply to, the one door out of the small study had renounced him, blocked by the being watching the young man pressed up tensely against the bookcase. No escape.

'Be careful, Schutzmann Crane.' The Hessian said, endowed with a clever darkness. 'You don't want to hurt yourself.'

Ichabod, within the same fleet of overwhelming dread did not dare move from where he was stood. 'Y-You .. speaking english now?'

'Of course I do,' He replied, taking a slow step toward him. 'Did you think I would fight in a war against the English without knowing their language?'

Ichabod backed furthur into the shelves with his shoulders high, his neat stomach jutted out infront of him. Too idle to apply a corset while Katrina was out for the day. 'Do _not_ come near me.'

'I want to feel my child.'

Spreading his arm behind a pile of sloppily stacked books, he threw them out at the Hessian in a bid to keep him away with an efforted aggression 'Stay _away_ from me!'

The horseman's sole aim was to get near him, and he would succeed too. The languor which the fatigue of his body and perturbation of his mind spread over his delicate features, served only in the Hessian's opinion to render him more easy to overcome. Snapping cunningly at the man's wrists and pinning him flat against the bookcase, a few books falling free as their bodies knocked the large piece. Though Ichabod was without a doubt afraid, he did not scream. A serene stillness as Ichabod cast his eye into the Horseman's cold, blue stare - a pellucid drop stolen from the young man's eyes, and falling down his cheek.

'Why have you done this to me?'

'Schutzmann, you owe me a favour.' The Horseman rasped in his face.

Ichabod's body gave an aggressive jerk against him. 'What _favour_ do I owe you! I returned your head!'

'Yes but at a cost, Schutzmann, at a cost!' He barked back, teeth bared as he kept Ichabod in place. 'What was to be the mother of _that_ child,' He bowed his head sharply downward once, 'was killed!'

'That was her own fault, cohorting with _evil_!' The constable said with disgust. In the heat of the moment it seemed so satisfying to shoot back now that the child may well belong to another. But Ichabod, weakened by pregnancy-inflicted illness and the struggles of the preceding months, was not able to support such a bold outlash; gasping for breath, his looks wild and haggard. Too there was the idea the the Horseman would not hesitate to seperate his head from his neck should he find out such a thing, his wiser half of the mind told him. Smartly, he did not add to the sentence - watching the Hessian grin at him wickedly.

'Nonetheless, whats done is done and we can look ahead,' The undead man said, something like satisfaction spread across his features as he released one of Ichabod's wrists and cradled the bump that kept their torsos apart. The constable grimaced at the grab of his hand that was supposed to be loving towards the child, tempted to fight against him but not daring it. A strange and somewhat newish feeling began to churn from his inners, something reacting to the horseman's hand. He groaned at how uncomfortable it felt, while a gentle suffusion of vermillion tinged his neck and face. It felt as though someone were wringing him out from the insides, the baby doing much more than just gentle and gradual movement. No, it was thrashing. Like it was trying to tear out of him.

'S-stop.'

'Stop what, Schutzmann?'

'Just .. whatever you are doing! Stop it - _now_!' With all his might Ichabod threw the Hessian away from him, the terrible churning feeling stop the moment his hand left his stomach. An action which by the most rigid could only be esteemed an inadvertency, he had long lost his place and character, and was driven again into the world, where he had already suffered its evils. The horseman was standing straight already, looking down his nose at Ichabod who was gasping through his tight throat, arm stretched across his stomach as he began to recover.

'I will return in the winter when my son is ready to be birthed.'

'Go to _hell_.' Was all he could choke out.

* * *

Almost a week was gone, and Ichabod continued most evening to meet Abberline, and in hisart every meeting was resolved to be the he would tell him; but alas when Abberline at parting would earnestly intreat one more interview, that treacherous heart betrayedhim and, forgetful of its resolution, pleaded the cause of his mind so powerfully, that Ichabod was unable to resist merely enjoying he time he had with him. Another and another meeting succeeded; and so well did the Inspector improve each opportunity, that the heedless man at length confessed no idea could be so painful to him as that of never seeing him again.

The sat under the cork tree, head rested upon the other and occasional sighs passing. Abberline was near falling asleep - or so he seemed to be, whereas Ichabod thought deeply. Son. He had said son. Is that what Ichabod was carrying, a son? The constable could not deny he had had faint illusions of his child, some beautiful. Some horrific. Some of the time he would see a pretty little girl with fair dark hair that curled around her sweet face while she laughed and danced in spinning spirals. The rest of the time he saw a white in the face little boy, glaring up through his shock of black hair with striking bold eyes. Sharp teeth exposed in a wicked smirk.

'Abberline,' He said softly, looking up and seeing him practically dead in sleep. '_Abberline_.'

The Inspector did not take kindly to being abruptly awoken, grimacing as he roused awake but refused to open his eyes to evening light. 'Mmm .. what?'

'I must speak with you.'

'Hm? Wot about?' He stretched, straightening his arms and arching his back. Slacking his body then against the tree and looking over at the sitting-up Ichabod.

'The baby.' He said simply.

Abberline was part way through rolling a cigerette, but paused for a moment when Ichabod spoke. A second or two dithered, then the man's fingers continued to fold again. Ingratituded for the matter to have been brought up or not, he would not ruin Ichabod by not acknowledging it. Long ago he decided that he would support Ichabod as much as he would allow himself, regardless of whether he had come to accept it or not. He did not reply, but he did not have to - so he waited for the constable to speak again. Ichabod had formed this plan in his mind, and exulted in the certainty of its success. Straight and forward would be the way now.

'It may be yours.'

The Inspector stopped before the cigerette could join his lips. He turned pale as ashes, his limbs trembling and he was forced to call for a comforting draw of his cigerette. He loved Ichabod truly; and when he reflected on the innocence and gentleness of his disposition, he concluded that it must have been the advice and machinations of his mind which led him to this imprudent action. He saw the conflict in his mind, wanting to doubt Ichabod but he could not help but feel his heart beat harder. The last time he had tried to try Ichabod's knowledge he had been shot down in an instant, perhaps there was truth; and to entertain such a thing made Abberline's stomach flutter.

The once sweet to him cigerette seemed too sickly to touch lips on again, Abberline lowering it to his lap and looking at Ichabod. 'M-_mine_?'

Ichabod's own heart had stopped completely, too scared to beat. 'Yes, there is a possibility.'

A possibility. That wish alone partly relieved the anxiety of the Inspector, his mind reeling for the man whose possible future study would make him happy at last. Pursuit was needless; the measures taken to avoid discovery were too effectual to be eluded. When he thought his lover reconciled to this precipitate step, a small smile began to touch his lips.

'I-I always wanted children, sum'day .. '

The constable was determined not to fade into the background, 'Did you?'

'Yeh,' Abberline said, more of a breathless whisper. 'By now, a man in me' thirties .. I thought I'd be married wiv' a pile of kids by now.'

'What went wrong?'

The taste of the cigerette was slowly starting to become more appealing, 'Fate. Fate went wrong. A long time ago.' He said, taking a drag, and as he drew away began to smile at Ichabod with a genuine pleasure. 'But .._ fuck_, Ichabod .. y'r not playin' wiv me head? Could it really be mine?'

He was already nodding, 'Yes, it could be.'

The Inspecotr, who had sat speechless with surprize and fear, now ventured into the dangers of feeling joy. 'Fuck .. ' and turned from him then back to him, endeavouring to suppress his own too visible emotions. It would be vain to attempt describing what Abberline and Ichabod felt whilst looking into each other's face, and when they had finished, a dying brown leaf fluttered down from the tree. Neither tear nor sigh escaped either of them, and they sat the image of mute sorrow, till roused from his stupor by the subtle but repeated chokes from Ichabod. Abberline rose, and crept beside him, folding his arms about him. Nature relieved his almost bursting heart by a friendly gush of tears.

'Ey', ey.. don't cry, come on .. this is _good_.'

Ichabod parted slightly, eyes tinged red at their corner. 'It is?'

'Yeh, .. yeh, it is!' The Inspector began to laugh. 'It's .. bloody fantastic!'

Even just a chance at being a father again was enough to make Abberline a happy man for this moment while it was fresh inside his mind. Should any one, presuming on his own infamous temper, look with an eye of contempt on the man who could indulge his lover's weakness, let remember that man was a father once and may well be again, and he will then pity the misery which wrung those drops from a noble, generous heart.

* * *


	20. Cutting Edge

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

****

I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**WARNING; This chapter contains self harm.**

* * *

His very heart ached while he gritted his teeth together and endured; but certain he was that the sense of shame in himself had stifled. When once he has lost sight of the basis on which reputation, honour, every thing that should be dear to the lawman's mind, he grew hardened in guilt, and spared no pains to bring down lucidity and beauty to the shocking level with himself, and this preceed by that diabolical spirit of the past. She just would not go away.

'Vict'ria .. '

All these thoughts of a new son or daughter for him repined at seeing another in the full possession of that respect, something which made Abberline no longer hope to enjoy while he remained under the dark and muddling influence of absinthe and opium. It had brought up those memories he had been forced to surpress, of his sweet Victoria and their unsung son. It overwhelmed any sense of joy he had earlier felt, extinguished the thrill that had kept his eyes aglint all the way back to the secluded public house. The Inspector sighed as he detached cutting edge from forearm, leaning a little furthur down into bathwater and bidding Ichabod a thousand apologies. The water long since turned lukewarm.

Abberline eyed the unsuspecting blade, as he perused the resevoir glass with a malignant pleasure. He saw, that the contents had awakened new emotions in himself. Encouraged his hopes, calmed his fears, and before he would part with it for the night, it was determined that he should not meet Ichabod the ensuing evening - not like this.

'It migh' be mine .. '

In the mean time, the Inspector, vexed to the soul that such a fortune should be lost, was determined to offer himself an aid for Ichabod's favour. He would be as involved as he would let himself. What wonderful changes were wrought by that reigning power, ambition. The Inspector, on first sip of coloured vert had wept, raved, tore his hair and vowed to not succumb to his guilty lucrative tonight. A failure, and by commencing solitude, shut himself up from the sight of cruel ungrateful world as he eased his head back and lowered his arms into the still water, tinging it a clouding red.

* * *


	21. Game of Vindication

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

****

I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

Any man who had the knowledge of the world, which Ichabod did, could easily imagine the Inspector was made up of encomiums on his beauty, and vows of everlasting love and constancy; nor will he be surprised that a heart open to every gentle, generous sentiment, should feel itself warmed by gratitude for a man who professed to feel so much for him; nor is it improbable but his mind might revert to the agreeable person and proud appearance of Frederick Abberline.

Yet, Ichabod felt the man of Whitechapel was bothered. Greatly, and it came as little surprise. He was disappointed in the pleasure he had promised himself from Abberline's smile. The levity of the gentlemen and the freedom of their conversation after sharing a heartfelt embrace had eased him only slightly. Ichabod was astonished at the liberties Abberline permitted himself to take as he had been so pleased to hear they might become parents; he grew thoughtful and uneasy, and heartily wished their situation would only come out well, and that the blood of Abberline ran through the child's heart.

Gracious Heaven; if Abberline were the father - it would more than likely change everything. When he thought on the miseries that must rended his heart mere months ago when the darling of his eye was at first doubted from his issue, and the thought of ever raising it abandoned he found himself conflicted. Those miseries continued to play on him even after eight months had passed, Whether or not the baby was fathered by the very wretch who decoyed him from the comfortable life he had or the Inspector, the son or daughter would still belong to its mother. No, mother was the wrong word. More of a genitor; or parent - and even those seemed such risky words of choice. Then there was Katrina. When he saw his poor and wretched fiance, his heart was torn between remorse for his crimes and love for his dear Inspector while every tear from his eye was numbered by drops from his bleeding heart, his soul yet glew with honest indignation, and the wish for the power to pull the monster from the earth and toss him back to Hell.

'Ichabod,' A fair voice muttered beside him.

The man was pulled back out of his own head, he was possessed of many qualities, both favourable and un. Though a peculiar trait in his character threw a shade over them, his ability to disappear into the deepest of thoughts. Even when walking through a busied New York street with a lady and young boy. He was about to acknowledge her, when he looked up and where she had presented him to; frowning up at the large sign he couldn't quite read from his position.

'Where are we? He asked, looking back down at Katrina's small frame. She had not held onto him arm, clinging like a lovesick girl like she normally would. She wore a subtly grave face, and so she had been for a months. Whenever she tried to hold his hand or kiss his cheek she felt nothign more than a ridiculed romantic girl, who foolishly imagined her fiance to return her affections and constitute to the fine gentleman he was. Should that fine gentleman make even just an effort to love her, she would imagine herself so much in love as to fancy it a meritorious action to jump out of a window and trust entirely to the honour of her man, who perhaps hardly knew the meaning of the word anymore. And if he did, would be too much the modern man of refinement, to practice it in her favour.

'The tailor,' Katrina answered. 'Had you forgotten? You are being fitted with your groomswear today, Ichabod.'

The forgetful Ichabod was astonished at what he heard. He remembered now their appointment with young Bridgeman, made months and months ago while he had the aid of being a thin man - an unimbrued man. His black cloak he wore deliberately hid him well for now, but oh; how he knew now that he had taken advantage of being so lean and trim. Wearing clothes that hugged his figure and striding out with furthur thought, now he was here and forced to be attached underneith baggy garments. How wonderful then, that he should resolve to be with another man and become pregnant; his mind bitterly told him. It was indelicate. It then laughed at him and called him a little idiot.

'Mr. Bridgeman sews well, sir.' Young Masbeth added, blissfully ignorant as he cut Ichabod out of his daze. 'He has been mending your shirts for a while.'

'Yes,' Katrina added, merely for the sake of it. She was already pulling Ichabod in by his arm before he could stop her or argue. Shewn to a house of public mending. Scarcely were they seated when the door opened, and the constable found himself in nerves. The first transport of tension not heeding to subside as Katrina was seated beside him, looking up and down at his smothering clothes attentively.

'Must you cover yourself so?' Asked she.

Ichabod was already prepared with his answer, muttering. 'Doctor Rolfe recommended that I cover up if I am to get well again, Katrina.' Half a lie, there was no getting better.

She would again renew her watchful position, till the shades of evening enveloped every object in a dusky cloud, unknowing of whether or not he or she believed it. Though she did not intend on answered, they were approached before another word could be spoken.

'Good afternoon, Miss Van Tassel.' The Bridgeman lad offered to Katrina, nodding once to Young Masbeth and looking at Ichabod with interest. 'Who is this?'

'That is Ichabod Crane.' Young Masbeth said, like he were announcing tonight's entertainment.

No sooner was he was introduced did he immediately become engaged, struck silent. A beam of exulting joy then played round the animated countenance of the young tailor, at these encomiums bestowed on him by the very presence that was his idol. The most delightful sensations pervaded his face, grabbing Ichabod's hand to shake it.

'Oh Constable Crane, sir! It is such a pleasure to be meeting you at last!' He said, delighted. Ichabod himself not knowing how to react as he jerked back and forth with the force of the handshake.

'Am I supposed to know your name, young lad?' He asked cautiously, taking his hand back for himself and looking up from his seat at the grinning boy.

'Oh no no, sir. My father and you work together, and I have heard so many great things about your work.' He answered.

'Who is your father?'

'Bridgeman, sir. Constable Bridgeman.' He said. 'I am Daugney.'

The constable began to feel humble at the thought of beginning an acquaintance with the tailor, remembering only slightly the mention of him down the watch house. In truth he rarely payed much attention to what the other constables had to say - especially the roughian that was Bridgeman, so he nodded at Daugney curtly.

'Pleasure to meet you, young Mister Daugney.'

The tailor was most humbled, 'The pleasure is all mine, constable! Now, what is it I can do for you?'

'He has an appointment.' Katrina added in. 'For his wedding apparel.'

'Oh yes,' Daugney nodded, only too pleased to oblidge. 'Well, if you will step through, Constable Ichabod, sir. I will take your measurements.'

A blush, deep as the glow of the carnation, suffused the cheeks of Ichabod. 'M-Measurements?'

'Yes, sir.' The lad said, standing before a grey-white curtain that lead to some back room. 'I take a length of string and measure the height and width of your legs, shoulders, arms .. all that, to determine the size of your clothes. Come through.'

Ichabod swallowed, proceeding to describe the unhappy situation in his head and becoming both iritated and scared to death to oblige to the tailor. Legs, shoulders, arms .. torso. Of course the dimensions of that would be surveyed and he would not be able to armour himself in draping clothery then - he would be discovered if he went with Daugney now.

'N-no.'

Katrina turned the conversation, facing her entirety to him from where she sat. '.. _Ichabod_?'

'No, I .. I _can't_, I'm sorry .. ' With a quick fluster he arose out his seat and left out the door. Horror and despair tearing every tortured nerve, and Katrina now confident he was hiding a secret from her

* * *

It may be asked by those, who, in a work of this kind, love to cavil at every trifling omission, whether Katrina did not possess any value of which she could have disposed, and by that means have supported herself till Ichabod's return, when she would have been certain of receiving every attention which compassion and friendship could dictate; but let herself entreat the wise, penetrating gentlemen to reflect, that when Ichabod left the tailor's, it was in such haste that there was no time to purchase anything other than worry, let alone the clothes he would wear to hid wedding. They had been so in love on her arrival to New York, arm in arm everywhere and looking ahead at their future in the city. She had so many plans which the greatest extremity of want could not have forced her to part with, marriage .. children .. the bliss of golden age at his side while they lived through the new century. She thought then that she knew nothing of the world. If the world sanctified such things - her fiance growing so distant from her and their love beginning to die, it must have been a very bad world. Their journey back to New York almost three years prior she had understood they were to marry when they arrived at New York. Katrina was sure Ichabod promised to marry her. Yet here she was now, unmarried and doubting love - standing as she heard the door open. It had taken him the afternoon and night to return home.

When the door was opened, Katrina, in a voice rendered scarcely articulate, through cold and the extreme agitation of her mind, demanded of him before he had even stepped in. 'Ichabod Crane, you will tell me this instant what you are keeping from me.'

Ichabod hesitated in the doorway before proceeding into the house, knowing that this lady was engaged at a game of vindication with him, nor could he think he would like to be disturbed by a person whose appearance spoke him of so great a consequence as Katrina; yet there was something in her countenance that rather irritated him.

'I am no disposition for this, Katrina.'

'Why would you not be fitted for your wedding clothes!' She demanded, blocking his way with her tiny body as he tried to move past her. 'Ichabod, you have been so distant with me that I fear any marriage between us would be a waste!'

'Katrina .. ' His voice came out an aggitated sigh, which frustrated her furthur.

'No! Answer me!' The tremulous accent, the tearful eye, must have moved any heart not composed of adamant, Her voice lowered as tears fell. 'Do you still want to marry me, Ichabod?'

There was a pause, 'I've not the patience to argue with you.'

As this conversation passed so did Ichabod, beginning to pass her. It was deeply impressed on Katrina's mind, her face rendered hurt. For charity's sweet sake this night let her just be sheltered by a solid answer and let his stoic heart be moved to at least some compassion. Katrina there reacted with aggression, turning at him and crying out as she grabbed at his cloak, trying to pull him back toward her where then she would demand truth. Though she stopped him moving, her small feminine frame could not force him. Though it did tear away his cloak from his shoulders. Ichabod felt his heart stop, not bothering now to tear away or cover himself for she was already staring as his protective layer was now shed from him. His agonizing sensations almost overpowered him as he felt her eyes on him, on his developed stomach.

'.. Oh God,' cried Katrina., clasping her hands in an agony, 'Oh .. oh my God! I-Ichabod .. ! What tricks are these!'

The still, dumbfounded figure of Ichabod in his affecting situation might have moved had he dared; remaining inflexible. In vain did he recount the time they had known each other at the Hollow, in vain mention their being in the same home, in vain were the names of those they once knew mentioned in his head. Ichabod could only turn slightly to her, swallowing the lump heavy in his throat.

'No tricks,' He said, in a grave calm.

'Liar.'

'Katrina,' He could feel a strong feeling of enragement brewing between them, keeping it behind clenched teeth. 'I will confess now I have lied to you in the past, but not about this.'

'So .. what is it you are telling me! That .. that you would not disrobe because you felt did not want me to find out or, or .. ' Her voice died away, a tear trembling in her eye. ' .. What do you mean you have lied to me?'

No wonder, then, that such a man should resolve to tell her the truth at last for the relief of his conscious heart, it had been kept a secret far too long. He would not enquire too minutely into the cause which might actuate him in this instance; suffice it to say, he immediately put the plan in execution; and took himself a deep breath - feeling the baby become suddenly active and kicking at his insides as if trying to distract him away from what he were about to commit. He silently dealt with it, having the superlative felicity at last of seeing her, and himself, at liberty with the truth, When the heart had will, the voice would soon find means to execute a good action.

'I have been seeing another.'

Receiving an ample reward of the tearful eye and half crushed look of Katrina, she came in with a trembling voice. 'A-Another?' Her voice sounded so young. 'Did .. did she do this to you then, Ichabod? Did she turn you against me?'

'No, not she.' He meekly corrected. 'The one I have been with .. is not a woman, but a man.'

The distressed fair one dried her tears, listened patiently, and at length declared she believed every word; so feared her poor broken heart. 'So .. so, you are carrying the child of another man, is that it? And in doing so your love for me was robbed.' She paused. 'Did you ever really love me, Ichabod?'

Ichabod heard her with emotion: he had lost Katrina's respect by avowing his passion for Abbeline, and he saw now there was no hope of regaining it. But the Inspector would not make him miserable, and he had no ambitious notions. She did not need to know about the Horseman, it would only distress her furthur and secretly, it felt well not to mention it and believe he was talking solely of his child's father set in stone. The heartbroken look on her face, along with that heavy knowing that Abberline wasn't as happy as he tried to be diluted his own heart.

'There was a time I loved you, Katrina.' He said with earnest, showing his deep sincerity.

'And now you hate me?' Katrina, containing her upset as much she could though her pale face crumpled.

'I do not hate you.'

'Do you love me?'

He closed his eyes, beginning to shake his head slowly. His dark hair following him. 'No.'

The girl feared the emotion of him; or lack thereof. She loved Ichabod, and the very idea of incurring his displeasure gave her the greatest upset: but there was a more forcible reason still remaining: should she show cling to Ichabod and beg that he love her again - and what would be the consequence? Her voice was wistful through upset, tears staining her white cheeks.

'I had always hoped your children would be with me.' She was looking down at his stomach, pushing against his white linen shirt. Practically laughing at her. 'I had always dreamed what our sons and daughters would be like, Ichabod. Free-minded as I was, but so intelligent like you. Beautiful too.'

She looked up at him, eyes blurry. 'Is that why you would never make love to me? Because you wanted no children by me?'

His guilty silence comprised his character in a few words to her; dissipated, thoughtless, and downright heartless, he paid little regard to the moral duties, and less to religious ones: eager in the pursuit of pleasure, he minded not the miseries he inflicted on others, provided his own wishes, however extravagant, were gratified. Self, darling self, was the idol he worshipped, and to that he would have sacrificed the interest and happiness of all mankind. That was how strongly her heart felt againt him right now, knowing only she would break the silence.

'I see I am more of an obstable to your life then we both had imagined,' Katrina said to his lowered head, the man trying to blot out how sharply her stare was cutting him. She took past him and began to shamble up the stairs.

'I shall be gone by morning.'

* * *


	22. Fall from Grace

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

It had been a fortnight since Ichabod had last heard from Katrina.

While the tear of compassion still trembled in his eye for the fate of the unhappy girl, he began to grow an uneasy apprehension for himself. His time was beginning to run out, in only a few weeks time he would birth a child. He watched wearily out of the window, holding back a drape with one hand and beholding the white sky and frost gathering at his window corners. Winter. Ichabod shivered though he was not cold, feeling deprived of natural friends as he had only been visited by Frederick once or twice since revealing him; and each time he was strongly marked by some grey disposition no matter how warmly he embraced him or how pleasing his grin appeared to be. The constable had been forced him hide himself away; for now not even the tightest corset or loosest apparel could hide him. He daren't risk being thrown on an unfeeling world without the least power to defend himself from the snares not only of the public eye, but from the more dangerous arts of the profligate of his own.

As he was universally known to be the friend of the misfortunate, his infelicity frequently solicited; seldom it was that he sought out indigent merit, and raised it from obscurity, confining his own expenses within a narrow view. The only thing he had bought to prepare for the baby was an inexpensive cradle that he now glanced at from his windowside view, sitting idle at the corner. He knew not if it was to be a temporary measure, the dear and sweet looking little bassinet offering a slight support and cheer for the dear sufferer in his approaching hour of distress, and trying to tell him how nearly penitence was allied to virtue. It attempted to conduct his mind and forgive his absences. He could not help but tinge a small smile of pride, the cradle seemed to blend into the pale room perfectly.

But what point was it trying to prove?

Let him but live once more to see his dear wandering Inspector restored to his afflicted arms, and take him from this world of sorrow whenever it seemeth best to wisdom. He would endeavour to heal his wounded spirit, and speak peace and comfort to his agitated soul, somehow. Ichabod lifted himself out of his chair and began to gradually pace the front of the window, a hand pressed against the base of his back, looking down at his form and expelling a sigh of compliance.

'And what of you, child?' He asked the unborn. 'Am I to love you with all my heart or hate you with my every fibre?'

A moment before whatever answer Ichabod expected, there was a knock at the door and more hastier ones following. He turned with a startle, instantly promising not to answer the door. The evening before the day his appointmented nuptials of he and Katrina had ended and he was in no state of mind or emotion to speak to anyone, feeling a demon for hurting her so and not having the heart to even tell her sorry. Katrina Van Tassel and Ichabod Crane, the former solicitudes refired to his early memory; and he began ruminating on the past scenes of his life, suffering under the keenest remorse in the remembrance of she.

'Ichabod, ans'her th'door!'

The constable frowned, 'Abberline .. ?' He began to the door and opened it only slightly, peering through the gap he was confirmed, but not in the way he had hoped. The Inspector was there, certainly, but swaggering where he stood and unshaven, hair a great mess and his eyes bloodshot, clothes hanging rumpled off him. It looked as though he was bent on the complete ruin of himself.

'.. _Abberline_?' He opened the door a little more to let him stagger in.

'Aaaah, Ichabod. 'Ello,' He grinned sloppily, not quite able to stand straight. 'Give'sh a kiss'h .. '

By reducing himself onto Ichabod's frame, the young man managed to catch him by means of only staggering by slightly. Holding the Inspector at arms length and an ungenerous degree on his face, 'A-Abberline what is the matter with you .. ?' His nostril flared and twitched, sensing something sharp in his heavy breath. 'Are you _drunk_?'

He was grinning lazily even under the provision Ichabod had put him in, becoming dependant on behind held upright. 'Roarin' drunk, stone cold sober .. what'sh the difference, ay?'

'The difference is that you have not rendered yourself a scoundral.' Ichabod said dispassionatly, unsure of whether to release Abberline's arms at risk of the man flopping over on him.

'I .. _I'm_ a scoundral .. tha'right? Well what, what about _you_ .. constable .. playin' away from yer missus, hmm? Is'h she 'ere? Katrina, '_ello_?'

The struggle in Ichabod between conjugal tenderness and bitterness was long and painful. At length the former triumphed, and he consented that he would endevour to try and ignore whatever hurtful things the Inspector would say. 'No .. she is not here.'

'Oh, aw'ight .. ' The Inspector muttered passively, his shoulders sloppily moving then dragging him forward, heavily putting his both hands on Ichabod's bulge. 'Oh yeh, ello little'un! I'm yer dad; well ... I migh' be .. I dunno, Ichabod 'ave you sussed out who'sh the father yet?'

'Frederick,' He was assertive as he stepped back from him, ignoring him becoming hard. 'I think you need a lie down.'

'I don' .. need no lie down .. ' Abberline said, now relying on the wall behind him to keep him standing. Slumping against it. 'Ey, who'sh .. who'sh th'other then?'

'The other_ what_?'

'Y'know .. th' other dad, if is'h not me .. ' He said without much feeling, still wearing that drunken smirk. 'Who'sh gone and robbed you off me .. put a baby in you .. hmm? Who'sh took you off me .. '

The Inspector proceeded to slide furthur down the wall and slump to the floor, his mind pleasured purely on absinthe and not even thinking of the dangers lurking beneath those pleasure until it was too late to avoid them. Ichabod looked down at him sitting on lazily on the floor, head hung. His young heart in danger of becoming elicted to a deserving repellance, but fighting so hard against it. The man was fallen from grace, he could see that. The young man lowered himself beside him onto his knees, looking at him with a firmness as hurt touched him at a most vulnerable part.

'You're not thinking straight.' He said to the Inspector. 'We will speak again when you are sober.'

'Wot' .. why not now,' Abberline slovenly lifted his head, eyes lazy and grey. Lacking his usual radiant sheen. 'We can talk now, we can talk whenever'sh we want .. '

'Not when you are drunk, Abberline.'

'Pffft .. I been worse .. ' The Inspector muttered, looking at Ichabod with his head leant back against the wall. 'I'm .. I'm goin' back, y'know .. '

That then Ichabod paused unexpecting of what Abberline had said, gazing at him bewildered with horrorstruck eyes and found he was unable to refuse staring at him. He was most probably speaking of going to his London, and if ever Ichabod should hear any account of him afterwards, it would only be out of some temporary kindness. Though he loved the Inspector ever so fervently and would waste his last breath on a prayer for his happiness, it would be nothing to him. The fate of the man if we went alone would be enough to kill the both of them, and Ichabod then permitted himself to pray for both their souls; his heart swelling as he stared into Abberline.

'Wh-_what_? Why!'

'D'you 'ave any cigerettes?'

It did nothing to alleviate Ichabod's suffering, striking the back of his hand across to slap Abberline across the face. '_Stop_ it! You _can't _leave me here!'

The Inspector sagged as his body leaned and the delightful sensation that dilated his heart sparkled in his once intelligent eyes, heightening the red glow on his struck cheek. 'Y'don't need me.'

'Yes I _do_!' He admitted his own emotion, his eyes dripping wrung fraught as he held both sides of Abberline's face. 'I don't _understand_! You were once so happy!'

'I coulda' been 'appy if I'd 'ave never come to this'h bloody city .. ' He groaned, eyes swivelling and rolling around his head. 'Mighta' met a .. a gorgeous woman and married 'er .. but no, I got .._ you _... instead. '

Just so it happened with that last word the Inspector's head slumped as he instantly fell into a drunken sleep. Ichabod, releasing his face and slowly standing to his feet, made no scruple of mentioning the cruel conduct of his lover to the poor distressed lunatic that was heartache who claimed his every feeling. His eyes joined his mind onto the sleeping reprobate on his floor and his inhumanity; nay even Ichabod thought he might at least have ordered him to be taken care of, but he dare not even hint it to himself, for he lived but in his own hurt, and drew from his lavish fondness large sums to support even keeping the man under the same roof.

He turned away, blowing out the candlelight and leaving the room black. Vice had not so entirely seared over his heart, but the sorrows of Ichabod could find a vulnerable part as he took up the stairs for the night, leaving the Inspector to sleep on the floor.

* * *


	23. Forsaken Forever

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

The next morning by sunrise the Inspector found himself at anchor on the hallway floor. Ichabod, whose affection in return met only indifference, knelt at his sleeping side, a steaming cup in hand. Only but faintly could anyone conceive his anguish. Dreadfully painful was the situation of such a man, he thought he had then a comfort of which poor Abberline was deprived; the gift and curse of appearing stoical. The duteous constable had been at his side since the break of dawn, waiting him to wake despite being treated with indifference, he had one solid aim now within himself, to reflect. He had not deserved such neglect, he had ever fulfilled the duties of his station with the strictest exactness and could only try so hard to please Abberline. Ichabod had hoped, by constant unflagging effort and unremitted attention, to recall his wanderer. He couldn't have cast him out to the poverty and contempt of the city's night; no matter how heartless he had been.

Abberline began to stir, grumbling some deep inarticulate sounds from the throat and opening his eyes only narrowly, looking around him and seeing the expression of an unfriendly welcome, and the blank representation of disconsolation, on the face of Ichabod who had favoured him with his esteem; and from all these circumstances the Inspector gathered himself, sitting himself up and pinching his foreheard for comfort, but the poor young constable, vulnerable by thoughtless passion led astray, in parting with his honour, had forfeited the esteem of the very man.

'A drink,' He muttered, offering the cup to him.

The Inspector's voice was a low and tired mumble, 'Mmm, wot is it?'

'Hot water.' Ichabod did not wait for him to take it, setting it down beside him and beginning to stand, using the wall to support him.

Feeling his indifference in the fruit of his own folly, the Inspector managed to stand before he did, staggering a little. 'Ichabod, wha'ever I said last night .. '

'Whatever you said last night you meant.' He replied, lamenting his want of power to recall his lost affection. Eyes dull and ringed dark. 'At least now I know how you truly felt.'

'No .. no, I was just bein' stupid, I was just .. '

'Drunk, I know.'

'That wasn' _me_ talkin'!'

'No! It wasn't, it was your factuality!' Ichabod burst. 'Did you intend to tell me you were leaving back to London when you were _sober_?'

The Inspector then was a man guilty, but very feeble: he might have left him in a moment of shame but decided to stay. Ichabod had no redness of anger in his cheek, no friendly, soothing companion to pour into his wounded mind the balm of consolation, no benevolent hand to lead him back to the path of rectitude; not any more. Abberline had disgraced his friend and forfeited the good opinion of the world, undoing himself.

'I-I was goin' t' tell you .. ' He said with shame.

Ichabod was sneering at him bitterly, 'No you weren't.'

'I didn't want t'upset you, its bad for th' .. '

'What? The _baby_?' He felt himself a poor solitary being in the midst of surrounding grief. 'You do not care what happens to the baby!'

Shame bowed him to the earth, remorse tearing his distracted mind, and guilt clothed the dreadful scene. 'Yes I _do_!'

'You have already upset me, Abberline!'

He began to sink, unnoticed, to oblivion. Fearing to God for whatever he had said to the poor man. 'Ichabod, wha'ever I said .. I didn't mean it.'

'You didn't mean to _say _it, Abberline.' Ichabod corrected.'If you had never loved me you could have told me long ago, instead of leaving me to cling to my false hope.'

The finger of contempt may point out to some passing misfortunate of youthful mirth, the humble bed where lies the frail sister of mortality. With every new revelation the Inspector began to recollect, horrifying even himself. He could only repeat again and again that he hadn't meant a word, but Ichabod was not listening. His eyes had summonded his attention downward, eyeing the Inspector's sleeve with a frown, or rather the gap between his hand and his cuff. Would he, in the once unbounded gaiety of his heart, exult in his own unblemished fame, and triumph over the silent ashes of the dead? Oh no.

Ichabod refused to look away from the angry looking lines on the small exposure of the Inspector's wrist, 'What are those?'

Abberline meekly hung his head, pinching down his cuff. 'It's-it's how I cope .. '

'_Oh_, for God's _sake_ Abberline!' He cried, moving so feverishly he knocked the cup of hot water onto the floor. Steaming liquid spilling over the wooden top. 'How do you think _I_ cope?'

'No, its' jus' .. all this, wiv' you and the baby, then theres all the shit back a' London and Katrina too .. '

'Katrina and I are finished,' His heart sensibly stopped his emotions heightening, addressing the unhappy victim of folly. 'Perhaps you might have noticed; she is not here.'

Abberline was advancing rapidly in his contrition towards Ichabod, letting his head begin to hang. Ichabod was an amiable young man; barely finished with his twenties and he saw only the fair side of his character; he possessed an independent fortune, and resolved to be happy with the man of his heart, and the Inspector could see he had thrown all that back in his face.

Ichabod spoke again, 'I am giving the baby away when it is born.'

Though his rank and fortune were by no means so exalted as he had a right to expect; the Inspector struggled to conceal his sudden passion; 'W-_what_? Why would y'do that, what if it's mine! _Ours_!'

'I don't want it, you don't want it. From there it is the solution to both our problems.'

'I _do_ want it!' The Inspector cried eagerly, wondering at Ichabod's timidity and lightly cupping his face. 'I want th' baby, I want _you_!'

The distance fortune had placed between them occasioned Ichabod's backwardness, and made every advance which strict prudence and a becoming modesty would permit. He stepped back from Abberline's hands, filching away from his touch.

'You injured me where it hurt the most,' He muttered, face hidden beneath his almost black hanging hair. His eyes closed. 'Leave me.'

Abberline saw with fear he was meant it, trying to near him again. 'Ichabod .. '

'_Leave me_!'

A spark of remorse and honour which animated his heart would not suffer him to take advantage of his partiality. He was well acquainted with Ichabod's situation, and he knew there would be a double cruelty in forsaking him at such a time. He could not risk upsetting him furthur, and with a heavy heart and silence; he opened the door and left. No sooner had he left did Ichabod's stoic demeanor leave with him, covering his face with his hand as it began to twist with unhappiness. He knew now he was a wretched creature, there would be no chance at happiness for him. Perhaps Abberline would be back, or perhaps he would be forsaken forever.


	24. Patience

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

* * *

Ichabod was left to himself, and so he had been for several days. Sitting on the stairs with his head bowed he began to think what course he must take, or to who he could apply, to prevent his perishing for want, or perhaps that very night falling a victim to the inclemency of the season. After many perplexed thoughts, he at last determined with an unarchieving sigh to set remain in the prison that had become of his own home, and enquire into nobody. From which he had no doubt but he should obtain immediate relief as soon as his distress was made known; he had no sooner formed this resolution than he resolved immediately to put it in execution. Though, rather than escape to a friend Ichabod had taken to the friend within his ledger. Thrusting and stabbing the quill at the page like a brutal butcher. It made for great relief, and was much safer than finding some ear to bawl down.

Though the snow fenned so fast and the cold outside managing to seep into the house, Ichabod was uncomfortable with the heart on his skin. Any person of sensibility may have perhaps thrown themselves into bed at first sign of a fever, but the thought didn't even cross his managing or control. It was therefore but just that his conduct should, in some measure, be accounted for. He had ever been fully sensible of the superiority of his sense and virtue; and conscious that he had never swerved from rectitude, had it not been for her bad precepts and worse examples that is. Where Abberline was, what he was thinking? Those were things as yet unknown to Ichabod, and he wished not to have that exposed to him, as he had great reason to fear he had already lost a considerable part of that power he once maintained over his tears. He sagged against the wall, face blushing with hot and balancing a cluthced fist over his protruded stomach, begging for the baby to stop tormenting him with this sickness. Lest the Inspector should return; Ichabod perfectly well remembered how much he seemed interested in his favour whilst on their passage from friends to lovers, and made no doubt, but, should he see him in his present distress, he would offer him an asylum, and protect him to the utmost of his power. But that would all be from guilt alone, Ichabod firmly believed. Oh how he had plucked his heart apart as easily as a daisy and stamped on it. In that case he feared the guarded nature of Abberline might discover to Ichabod the part he had taken in the unhappy man's elopement from his home, and he well knew the contrast between his own and Abberline's conduct would make the former appear in no respectable light.

The front door just steps from him suddenly knocked, startling him to sit straighter and stare. He threw himself entirely to the attention of the door, sitting silently wondering whether or not it wise to answer.

'Ichabod, sir! It's me!'

The genteel young of the voice twined Ichabod's heart and brought some relief to his tense shoulders. Then suddenly came mixture of anguish and resignation depicting him, as if he would dare not boast of his happiness to hear his voice, or even in idea contemplate the very moment he exculted the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from him.

He opened the front door but a panel, 'Young Masbeth?'

The boy stood humbly, smiling a weak smile. He had shined his shoes and combed through his black hair for efforts sake, which Ichabod took a moment to notice.

'Sir,'

There stood then a strange silence, Ichabod openly the door only slightly more for him yet he did not invite himself in as he thought he would. Masbeth stood with his venerable head reclined upon his chest, his hands folded and his eye fixed on the stone doorstep. Ichabod did not enjoy this silence, so broke it the only way he knew how in order the release the boy a little.

'Suddenly, there came a tapping .. ' He started, properness to his voice and looking down at Masbeth. Who was quick to catch on but kept his head low.

' .. As of someone gently rapping,' The boy continued for him, beginning to look upto vacancy.

The constable smiled a little, 'Rapping at my chamber door.' Such were heart-rending tidings, that somehow enabled to console the boy, as well as Ichabod himself, who looked at him with an air of pride. 'You have remembered our readings.'

'Of course, sir.'

It was with the utmost difficulty by the united efforts of Ichabod and Young Masbeth that they could support their spirits relaxing each other as they had once been. Ichabod opened the door slightly farther, stepping away from the exposure of the sunlight as the child guided himself inside. Unfortunately, it had been true that when Masbeth first came to Ichabod he could barely read or write, and of course being a literary giant Ichabod had jumped at the chance to introduce him to not just letters and words, but poetry and prose. The work of Poe had been a kind start.

'Have you .. a message, or something for me, Masbeth?'

'I came here to see you, sir.' The boy said passionately, 'I have missed you.'

Heavy guilt preyed upon Ichabod, making him grimace and the painful heat of his body making it twist just farther. There had been a quarrel between them over who would have Masbeth, and Katrina had ultimately demanded that the man was in no state to take care of a young boy. So Ichabod had been defeated by her purpose. 'This must all be .. so strange to you.'

'Though I am sad that the union of you and Miss Katrina ended, I cannot help but look forward to the future.' He admitted.

'How do you mean?' The boy had Ichabod engaged, looking intently down at his height.

'I thought long and hard after Miss Katrina took me, sir. All sorts I felt, anger .. sadness, but then a selfishness. I mourned only for my happy home and hated myself terribly for it afterwards.'

'Masbeth .. '

'No, Mister Ichabod, please let me finish .. ' He begged. 'I then thought of the baby.'

Ichabod knew too well the consequences that must unavoidably ensue on the poor boy, therefore wisely resolving to let him continue uninterrupted.

'Sir, when my father died, you became the closest thing I had to .. a figure.' Masbeth said, with concentration. 'I hoped I could maybe one day have you look down at me like your own, and .. and .. after long thinking, thought maybe I could look down on the baby as .. well, a brother or a sister.'

He head lowered, sniffling. 'But I am probably so selfish.'

For Ichabod, the soul melted with gratification and grief; he was moved deeply yet in two directions. For his heart's shadow it felt nothing but horror and contempt that the boy was naively willing to love a child uncertainly born of Hell. But perhaps his heart would rather follow the fortunate mind through the scenes of pleasure and dissipation in which he was engaged, than listen to the complaints and miseries of the truth. Ichabod set his hands upon the narrow shoulders of the boy.

'You are not selfish, if anyone is to oblige by that title it is me.' He said. 'I am touched you came to tell me this.'

It was Masbeth alone who was permitted to cheer the gloomy solitude to which he was obliged to confine himself, looking up watery eyed at Ichabod and trying a weak smile. As to the faint hope which he had entertained of hearing perhaps an explanation as to who his new beau was to be from Ichabod and being relieved by his curious mind; it now entirely forsook him, he wanted nothing to do with anything that would ruin the man's trust in him.

The boy picked up his sleeve cuff, wiping underneith his dripping eyes. 'I .. I couldn't stay long.'

'I understand.' Ichabod said, though then his brow rose high as he recalled. 'Oh, Masbeth .. I wonder if you might do me favour?'

'Anything, sir.' He said willingly.

In a drawer by his stairside a letter had been lying there the day, written only that morning. Ichabod had imagined his and the Inspector's confuct had entirely alienated their affections from each other and broken their hearts, having not spoken more hope from each other in days. He reached into the slot to retrieve it, rolled and tied with but a thin piece of red string - he wondered, did the Inspector think for him - even now? If he did, it was only to laugh at the poor young man's want of spirit in consenting to be moped up from this loneliness, while Abberline and Katrina seperately were enjoying all the pleasures of a dissipated city, while he stayed in the silent placement with only the company of the crows that cawed at night. He handed the letter to Masbeth, who held unto it preciously.

'What is it, sir?' He asked.

'It is a letter,' Ichabod answered. 'I ask that you deliver it to someone for me, his name is Frederick Abberline.'

Masbeth blinked, a youthful innocence in his eyes. 'Where can I find him?'

'The address is written on the scroll's base, right there.' He tapped it. 'Lend a stable horse .. no, take Gunpowder and travel to the city's brink.'

'You would entrust me Gunpowder?' The depressive spirits in his voice lifted.

'Masbeth, I would entrust you my life.'

Let the boy therefore endeavour to deserve his smiles, and whether he succeed or not, we feel more innate satisfaction, than thousands of those who bask in the sunshine of favour unworthily. This young child, whom his master distinguished by the name of Masbeth, would the reigning favourite of him and successfully deliver the notice. Ichabod escorted him to the door, indisposition preventing him opening it uncautiously and permitted to the gloomy solitude to which he was obliged to confine himself. When he heard the turn of the brass handle, Masbeth carefully took his arms around Ichabod by approaching him slightly aside. Pulling him for a hug, something the boy and Ichabod had never shared. Ichabod was stunned, though eventually patted the boy's shoulders with the base of his arm to lightly show he appreciated his forgiveness and his reintroduced respect. With that Masbeth stole into the streets. So there was an end of Ichabod's hopes, he felt so alone yet again. He wondered who would take him next, if any, and what would become of the little affected boy.

Finding the nearest seat he sunk into it, and realised that with the boy left his forgetting of how feeble his body was rendering him. But the pains and infirmities of the body he could bear and even submit to them with patience, if only they not aggravated by the most insupportable anguish of my mind. Head dipping, he fell into sleep.


	25. Remember New York

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

* * *

  
****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**

* * *

  
**

When the Inspector had left his native land; dank, unhappy Whitechapel which contained all that was vile to the wretched man, his prospects had been the same as he arrived into New York. Too easily followed the impulse of his treacherous heart, and trusted his happiness on a tempestuous ocean the young constable's had been, whereas Abberline's had been wrecked and lost for ever; Ichabod had been more fortunate, he was once united to a woman of honour and humanity, united by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, and admired by her, and surrounded by innumerable blessings of which the Inspector was bereaved, enjoying those pleasures which had fled him never to return. Alas, sorrow and deep regret had taken their place within Ichabod. B ""imit of his power: and may his offences be no more remembered in the day of general retribution, than as from his soul he forgave every offence or injury received from a fellow creature, even Ichabod. The child was indeed a forgiving being.

'Can I 'elp you, lad?'

From the loft of the stairs the voice came, the boy lifting his head disturbed from his musings. 'Are you, Mister Inspector Abberline, sir?'

The man caught the neurotic scent in the child's voice, beginning to descend down the stairs. 'Ye'.'

'I've a message for you.' Masbeth feebly continued.

But the Inspector was already looking at the note in his hand, clutched a little tighter than he had realised. Almost immediatly he was introduced to a quickened beating within his heart, his cigarette paused between his fingers.

'Who's it from?'

The boy offered the scroll. 'A Constable Ichabod Crane, sir.'

Though these were the ideas that involuntarily rushed upon the mind of Abberline as he perused the note, yet after a few seconds had elapsed, the syren Hope again took possession of him, and he flattered the scroll out infront of his eyes and discover an air of dolour in the few lines he had left, which at first had escaped his notice.

The letter read, '_Remember New York_.'

Slowly lowering, Abberline feared what emotion spurred the short letter. Anger, bitterness, sadness? He loved the constable, and the very idea of incurring his upset the way he had gave him the greatest feeling of selfwretchedness but there was a more forcible reason still remaining: should he hand the letter back to the boy and merely send his regards back to Ichabod, or flee now and most likely be turned out of doors. What was the consequence to be?

Flicking the last of the cigarette away, the Inspector threw on his faded plaid overcoat and bid the boy a quick 'Thanks, lad' before stealing out the door. Abberline was a man whose character might be comprised in a few words; and as he had already made some figure in the preceeding events, he had already described himself. He possessed a genteel fortune, and had a liberal education as well as a short fuse and a sharp tongue, not to mention a thirst for self destruction. But he would be damned before he would let himself believe he had no heart, and that it did not belong to another.

* * *

The words of the letter faulted his tongue, the Inspector running over them again and again as he paced through the square. A lover's guilty anguish, when disappointed in his tenderest hopes, none but a person whose heart had been shread a hundred times over could conceive. Yet, he would have read the scene with attention, and reflect that he had done a world of wrong to his poor Ichabod. His friend, as he valued his eternal happiness, wound not, by thoughtless ingratitude, the peace of the one who bore what could be his baby. Remember the tenderness, the care, the unremitting anxiety with which he had attended and yet had still continued to see him. Abberline listened, listened to his reproofs with silent attention; they proceeded from a heart anxious for his future felicity. He must show he loved him; nature, all-powerful nature, had planted the seeds of long standing affection in the Inspector. Then once more he read over the sorrows of poor Ichabod, and remembered, the one whom he so dearly lovedand venerated might feel the same, when he, forgetful of that respect due to his maker, forsaken the paths of virtue for those of vice and folly, and the terrible pleasures he now cursed known as the dragon. Ichabod might quite rightly turn him away, it was all down to heartfelt chance.

Abberline knew too well the consequences that he must unavoidably ensue, the letter in hand as he approached Ichabod's doorstep. He therefore wisely resolved to walk onto the doorstep, tear it in pieces, and commit the fragments to the care of the icey wind. If Ichabod refused to hear him, he did not want to remember New York.

'Ichabod,' Abberline began to knock. 'Ichabod .. it's me. Please .. jus' open th'door and let me talk to you.' The Inspector was melted by the affected contrition and distress of himself, he would converse with him for hours if he would have him, endure his verbal beatings, listen to his every complaint, cry with him, and promise to protect him to the utmost of his power. Anything.

His brow contracted into a frown, noticing he had yet to be answered. He knocked again. '_Ichabod_? You in?'

He easily knew Ichabod's character; the man would not be as impolite as to ignore him, even if he were scorned. He would either answer with the opening of the door or call through to him. And how did poor Ichabod pass hid time during a tedious and tempestuous passage? Naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness which he endured rendered him so weak as to be almost entirely confined to his bed, and all of the time his home. Abberline knocked more and more, harder too to the point where his knuckles began grazed.

The painful moments of expectation had passed, replaced by moments of growing panic. Commited to a sense of his own panic, he began to shove his shoulder against the door repeatedly, knowing there must be a reason the man was not answering the door. 'Ichabod! .. _Ichabod_!'

The door trembled loudly with each bash Abberline forced into it, spurred only by his aim of getting inside. It thrived and gave him strength, the door's hinges succumbing and shifting open with a final and almighty blow from the Inspector's shoulder. At that instant, he fled in, holding a hand against his aching arm and looked around wildly. There was something in the darkness of the house, the chill breathing through. To the Inspector, while it soothed the turbulence of his passions to know he was not yet faced with whatever wrath Ichabod had for him, it brought increase of melancholy reflections. He leant his arm against the wall, holding it as his eyes looked helpless. He called Ichabod's name over and over, but there was a silence, a silence he wished to break so unaccountable, but was unable. Ichabod was not in his house.


	26. Visions

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y

* * *

  
**

Tortured almost to madness by this shocking account, Abberline returned into the city, but even before he reached it, the evening was drawing closer. The day was beginning to break. In entering the town he was obliged to pass several stately homes and buildings, the residents of New York, who supported themselves with little effort. New York, where the rich were richer and the poor were poorer. The Inspector was amoungst a sqaure bursting with people, who strode past him simply. It was nearly dark: he heard from a neighbouring steeple a solemn toll that seemed to say some poor mortal was going to meet their last breath, the sound struck on the heart of Abberline, and he involuntarily heightened his frustration and panic, pushing through the people and stopping a few every other second.

''ave you seen a man called Ichabod Crane?'

'You seen Ichabod Crane anywhere?'

'Has anyone 'ere seen Ichabod Crane?'

Each time he saw the appearance of either a scared pedestrian or one who just shook their head to get rid of him. Almost unknowing what he did, he followed the crowd at a small distance; passing a small burial and as they let the coffin into the grave, he stopped.

__

Red. Smattered against tree leaves.

The bustling people moved past him, as his eyes fixed on the floor.

__

It wasn't a fields, a wood. A wood smeared in blood.

The visions ran through the Inspector's head, happening so quickly and sparking a pale fear in his face.

__

A flash of sliver, a baby crying.

He soon recovered; and fixing his eyes on ahead he gaped. Abberline know not what to believe, what he should do. He knew not whom he was realizing, or what he cursed in the bitterness of his heart. He had begged the visions not to come near him, they would contaminate him. The viper that stung the peace. Something had turned the poor Ichabod out to perish in the street. No, not the street. Heaven have mercy, he saw him now. Lying against the ground on black grass, eyes wide open and mouth agape, bright red smatters on his white face. Such was the fair bud of innocence that his vile arts blasted in his head half blown.

Abberline turned his head into the direction of the forest, and hoped to God he was not too late.


	27. Pray for Salvation

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**Author's Note; 'Dummkopf' means 'Idiot' in German.**

**

* * *

**

The perceptive man may have perhaps been astonished to find he could so positively deny any knowledge of his own situation; had he of just been conscious. it was therefore but just that his control should in some measure be accounted for. It was biting cold, that was all he would know when he came to, but what he did not know would greatly outweight the balance of what he was concerned. Uprooted from his home and spurred away into the black cluster of trees. These were things as yet unknown to Ichabod, lying still against the damp grass, trembling and his breath relieving a fine ice vapour. Lest his concious state should return, he would perfectly well remember how much he seemed interested in waiting at the door at his favour whilst on the passage from grieviousness to unsureness, and made no doubt, but, should anyone see him in his present distress,would offer a help at least. In that case there was fear for the guarded nature of Ichabod, might he discover to himself he had been forced into elopment. Not far though, infact mere street-lengths away from his own home. There was well a contrast between himself own and that of his situation. Had he reflected properly, he would have made great effort to cry for help; and by enjoining the silence, ensured it by acts fluttering his eyes and breathing more sharply as the cold cut to him. Vice in general blinds its votaries, and a man would discover the real character, when atbmost studious to preserve appearances.

The fog had returned, he felt and saw as his eyes managed open, feeling also exhausted by his inner fervent address despite the winter, and though his lips still moved his voice became inarticulate: he lay for some time on the same position on his back as though he were in a doze, soon realizing his wrists and ankles were tied down by ropes, forcing him into the pose against the damp grass that of the ill-fated crucifix, and then recovering, he faintly tried to call out.

'What .. A-Abberline, are you .. is that you?' His neck craned painfully, seemingly stiff as he squinted at a figure coming forth through the trees.

It spoke, 'I'm afraid not, Schutzmann Crane.'

The lying figure of Ichabod in his affecting situation, felt his eyes flare wide at the the clearing outline, standing now just at his side. Sword in hand and a terrible smile on his face. It moved the heart of a stoic easily to a man fearing for his life; the unfortunate Ichabod remaining inflexible under his bindings. In vain did he try to writhe out of them, arching his back and kicking his legs only to a small degree. The Horseman took a moment to watch him, with intent in his eyes down at what he thought to be his sheltered child. Soon, very soon. The way the Hessian stared at him only encouraged his fear, Ichabod balling his fists and making yet another fruitless attempt to free himself.

'W-What is this!' He cried.

'You forgot, Schutzmann?' The Hessian said, touching the tip of his finger against the edge of the blade and looking at it as though it had every inch of his attention. 'I said I would return in the winter.'

'How did I get here!'

'Shhh,' He pressed his index finger against his lips, kneeling at Ichabod's side. Setting the sword down carefully. 'This will be the last you see of me.'

Ichabod was in danger of making a sharp remark, but instead decided to watch the Horseman carefully. 'So I've thought in the past.'

'No, Schutzmann. The truth.' He said. 'Do not mistake, I was grateful that you returned my skull to me, but for that I paid you a favour.'

'What favour!'

'In exchange, I did not kill your wife.'

'She is not my wife.'

'Nonetheless,' It may have been asked by those, who, in a work of this kind, love to cavil at every trifling omission, whether the Hessian did not possess any valuable of which he could have disposed, yet still it was such a deep pleasure the struggling of another. 'I've come for my son.'

Ichabod found himself almost sinking with cold and fatigue as he felt the sweat shine on his forehead, his clothes and hair wet through from the water in the ground. The white shirt and usual attire aside the coat, hanging far back on the peg in his home, such improper habiliments for such a climare and poorly they defended him from the cold. Brow furrowed he eyed the blade already with an eye of concern, wishing badly he could break into a sprint.

With a beating heart, he asked, 'Are you going to kill me?'

The Horseman was silent, but Ichabod caught the sound of the Horseman's expression, and startling almost enough to jerk the ropes. The angels of peace and mercy, it seemed, had not come to deliver him. But sorrow, how well it knew him, and with recollection he remembered its name. The Hessian may well have just thrown his head back, laughed and bellowed a proud declaration that his blood would be spilled. Nothing could comfort him as he watched with terror, the Horseman stroke his blade.

'You won't have to worry anymore, Schutzmann. Your suffering shall end.'

* * *

The Inspector had, during that time, broke into the fastest run he could accomplish. Abandoning his jacket for speed and gripping his gun readily. At the name of his visions he perfectly conceived the whole shocking affair, Ichabod was in danger by some unknown hand. A faint sickness had come over him. Gracious heaven, let him get there in time. Encouraging his sprinting legs faster, he tore through the forest and wept with gritted teeth. If he should ever get to see Ichabod again, he would beg forgiveness. So long it had been since he had shed a tear for anyone but sweet Victoria, but now his head and heart were both on fire and in a strange way the tears along with the bracing wind as it hit him seemed to refresh. Oh now how he remembered lashing drunkenly on the poor Ichabod, breaking his heart harshly with absinthe-fuelled words, how he had received them.

'I'm comin' .. jus' hang on, I'm coming ... ' He promised through his teeth, striking out harder with this determination. Determination that the next time he met with the constable it would not be with his bleeding body.

* * *

'Schutzmann, you said the girl was not your wife. Who was she then?'

It had been some minutes where Ichabod had hopelessly been looking around for any signs of help and trying to thrash from his constricts, venture to enquire the particulars of what had happened during then, when he had been waiting for Abberline, and now. At length he assumed courage to deduce the Horseman had simply snuck upon him and knocked him out, proceeding to take him into arrest and wait for him to wake. Ichabod seemed greatly agitated, frustrated and down and out scared to death, pulling his wrists against the tight rope, not allowing it an inch of slack. But all it did was exhaust him.

'Schutzmann!' The Horseman snarled, demanding his attention. Ichabod was startled, looking straight at him disturbed from his hopes of escape.

'W-what?'

'The girl, where is she?'

The Hessian's voice, along with such a bold question, but gave Ichabod strict charge to keep up his frustrated spirits, forsaking the hope everything would turn out for the best and tensing even harder to try and pull away. Endeavouring to strike out some plan to attain his freedom and snapping harshly, 'What does it matter to you, Horseman!'

The Horseman kneeling at Ichabod's side was as calm as spring water, assuming for himself. 'I never had a love whilst alive, know that Schutzmann.' Like a surgeon about to dress wounds, he pulled up only slightly leather piece gloves. 'I became so reclusive in the pursual of lifeblood, while those others sought only in the Sovereign's money. Never .. did I have someone there to love me.'

'You are a monster, you do not understand love.'

'Is that so?' With an apparent cool did the Horseman respond, his blade across his lap. 'Well .. perhaps I might .. _learn_ how to love.'

The hand departed the sword blade, making home over Ichabod's neighbouring stomach. Unable to move away from him, Ichabod could only struggle with extreme resentment; unpitied for his suffering and faults underlooked. The Hessian, distracted, took to continue. 'Perhaps my son might teach me how to love.'

'You are _incapable _of loving!' He spat.

Receiving enough generous hostility, the Horseman decided to act. Hilt in hand, he loomed over Ichabod and grinned down at him wickedly. What wonderful changes were wrong by that reigning power, such ambition. Ichabod, finding him reduced to the most abject want, believed now the penitence which he professed to be sincere, would not help him now. Any confidence he once had he now realised was mistook for great fear, from thence deep inside. This was it, the child would be birthed in the most horrific and gruesome way and Ichabod's carnage would be spilt every in a matter of moments.

'Perhaps you might find love and bliss elsewhere, Schutzmann .. '

Just as Ichabod's flinched for his death and the Horseman began to lower the straight blade, they suddenly heard a loud rap and an almighty blow, which caused the Horseman to fling the sword and himself aside, holding his bleeding arm in pain. Ichabod, fatigued and tired from such a hard frightening, dared open his eyes. Father of mercies, spare him. There was Abberline stood but a few feet away, tucking away his smoking pistol and rushing to him. The constable did not know where he should laugh with joy or cry with fright, unable to support the shock and practically panting hard. The mind of youth eagerly catches at a promised pleasure, but none so sweeter as the Inspector rushing at his side and speaking to him with the aspect of an angel of mercy.

'Ichabod .._ fuck_, you alrigh'?' He was already working away to cut the ropes, vigorously rubbing the robe with the edge of a pocket knife.

The dear Ichabod so deigned to answer him, but no words would work from his mouth. He was once intreated to wear a grave face around him and throw down any hope of entertaining him with a passion, declaring enough. But now, he solemnly protested ever thinking such a thing again, believing now to trust in his heart and the Inspector's honour. He had come for him. Before Ichabod's voice had the chance to recover, he could sit up now that Abberline had snapped away each rope. They faced each other, silent for just a second.

'You have just made a grave mistake, dummkopf!' The Horseman was quick to abandon his shot arm, now a new objective in his mind. Such to a historic man of battle, would certainly practice bloodshed.

The Inspector turned back from over his shoulder, '_Fuck_, fuck it .. ' Retrieving back his weapon, he faced his affair of love. His young heart never more in danger than now, Ichabod's broken and pale face staring into him. One last embrace, that was all he asked. But there was no time, do or die. Bless his heart, both constable and Inspector shall never have patience to get through these dreaded times, so much fainting, tears, and distress, they were sick to death of the subject.

'Ichabod,' Abberline said, quick and firm. 'Run.'

Yielding fast his pistol with an impenetrable determination, he ordered Ichabod a final time before challenging the continuance in vice, ' .. Run _now_!'

Abberline for now did expect not his act to please, but he would do what he needed. What he swore, he would protect Ichabod to the most of his power. But softly, gentle fair Ichabod accepted as quick and as much as he would, upping quickly and staggering away between trees. Praying he had not thrown Abberline aside after he had persued him the whole, and the furthur he made at his shambling attempts at sprinting the quickly he found himself becoming exhausted. What could he glean from running? The Horseman was held up as an object of terror, and Abberline a guilty but unremorseful error, may perhaps he would repay him some day. Ichabod knew now he was well away and out of sight, stopping for his breath should he hope to catch it. He had triumphed from his shame, obtaining the affection of a worthy and great man and added to the art of guilt. The heat, it grew in his body mercilessly, the winter refusing to touch him when he needed most. His looks wild and haggard, he looked up to the white moon and stars, bright constellations, gathering new splendours from the surrounding darkness; but, whilst the benignant rays illumined his pale face and only slightly his spirit, he mourned that their influence could not extend to the son or daughter of affliction.

'Oh, Abberline .. ' He breathed heavily, beheld with respect for him as he leant against a tree to help his breath, uncomfortable with heat. 'Oh god, Abberline ... oh, .. _Oh_!'

It was sudden pain. That then he was weakened, unable to support himself and falling on his knees. An arm quickly folding across his stomach, he knelt. Taking himself in his cold hands he bowed his head through a first short but unpleasant, awful convulsion occuring inside him, expiring within moments but leaving him breathless. A faint sickness came over him, letting bow his burning head. A gleam of realizing fear broke into his already benighted soul, letting it breath out prayers for the salvation of himself, and the Inspector.


	28. Good versus Vice

**Disclaimer.  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

****

I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.

* * *

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**Author's Note - 'Sie sind verloren für immer' means 'You are doomed forever' in German.**

**

* * *

  
**

Death and distraction, this was too much. Rise, villain, and defend yourself. Abberline sprang, weapon aimed ready to finish him. The Horseman awoke to new fury and grappled his sword, snarling through his teeth eyes locked on the target. The Inspector poised; thouigh terrified at the furious appearance of this monster, seeing Ichabod near meet his bloody end encouraged his fury to heighten through it. He caught hold of his footing, careful to always move whenever the Hessian did, gun never moving from whence it pointed. The treacherous, infamous creature, was challenged by the mortal Abberline. As heaven was his witness, he would defeat him and flee to Ichabod, whenever he had ran. May he be safely away, the Inspector desired. For ever honoured be the sacred drop of humanity; the angel of mercy shall record its source, and the soul from whence it sprang shall be immortal.

'Who th'fuck are you?' Abberline kept a distance, not daring move his eye from him.

'I, dummkopf, am an unverified, unwritten story.' The Hessian said. 'A legend.'

'I didn't_ ask _t'hear your body of stories.' Abberline cut in, 'What d'you want with Ichabod?'

'Schutzmann Crane?' He almost laughed, grinning wickedly. 'The connection between myself and the Schutzmann, waits inside him. My son waits for me.'

The Inspector's confessed to a heavy blow, so here he was. The other father. He cast on the Hessian a look of contempt: it irritated him almost to madness; breaking from the feeble arms of rationality into distressed rage. Gun still at aim, he sneered, 'Y'might just as well turn and fuck off right now, 'cause that baby's _mine_.'

'Wretched mortal, you don't know who you are talking to.' The Horseman obliged, disregarding the man. 'Now, say goodbye.'

Striving to awaken new bloodshed, the Hessian slung swiftly his arm and released his sword, the weapon flying directly toward Abberline. Resentment, love and rage enpowered him against the creature, ducking down quickly as the blade fast approached, flying over him and landing hard into a tree trunk. He enquired his gun quickly, throwing two bullets from the barrel that unfortunately missed. He cursed and threw himself aside as the Horseman heaved a fist, beholded in some emotions without pity. It almost seemed to amuse him, the Inspector sickly saw. Taken offguard for that moment, the Hessian lunged, catching Abberline and throwing him onto his back, holding him down by the throat.

'You will die here, dummkopf.'

Scarecely breathing, the Inspector growled through his teeth. 'We'll see!' At a lucky chance he had flung his pocket blade only near from whence he cut Ichabod free, grabbing it and attacking it swiftly across the Horseman's face, and as he recoiled in pain, the Inspector scrabbled free and caught his breath. He had only bought himself a few moments, having to quickly formulate a plan. Thinking only to consult his gun again, he pulled the trigger.

'Shit.'

What pitiful moment drew when he hadn't loaded fully the pistol? He swore and swung it away, just as the Hessian lunged for him again. He enquired of a hard fist, aiming at the Hessian's face but interrupted as he found he needed to restrain him, angrily knashing, thirsty for blood. The Inspector looked up at the mercenary's face as he tried to tear at him, with both fear and rage as he struffled to keep him away. He was honourless, with no emotion to his heart of dust. Bringing fear and frustration to a man big with child was a terrible thing, but spilling even just a drop of his blood was enough to make another's boil. Determined, Abberline struck his hands free but was slow, the Hessian managing a hit clear into his face. He was motionless for a moment, tasting only blood as he spat it from his mouth then bursting with vigour, the moment would not take him in. He proceeded, striking back against him with violence and throwing his entire body on him. Raging mad as the Horseman almost managed to overpower him with his strength.

'You can't win this, _sie sind verloren für immer_!' The Hessian spat. smirking at a line of blood tracking down the Inspector's chin.

Close not his grave until the Inspector was finished, the night wet and cold. Both men ran with an aim, a precipitation toward where the nightmen heaped earth; determined to put each other under in remains. Greatly they had reason to detest each other, flinging punches and kicks everywhere. A striking example of good meaning versus vice. If their battle should save one hapless fair from the errors which wou.d ruin poor him, or rescue from impending misery the heart of one anxious parent, they shall feel a much higher gratification in reflecting on this trifling performance, than could possibly result from the applause which might attend the most elegant finished piece of war whose tendency might deprave the heart or mislead the understanding.

Hold, hold a moment. The tired and injured Inspector had caught sight of that tree, in it struck the Horseman's blade. In the quick moment that he had, he planned. It would be so much easier to forgeit, and resign the battle. But Ichabod had made too great an impression on his mind to be easily eradicated: having therefore spent so long in thinking on him and in endeavouring to form some plan for seeing him, he determined to set off for him, with hopes that he should love and trust to chance either to favour or frustrate his designs. Arriving on the verge of his ideas, he dismounted and lead himself.

'Ay' you bloody bastard!' He taunted, flailing his arms for the Hessian's attentions. 'Bloody legend you are, I'm not even tired yet!'

A lie really, the Inspector was exhausted and bleeding. But the enemy couldn't know he was weak. That had gratified curiosity, and monster was quickly preparing to return to the inn without honouring any of the belles of danger with particular notice, when Abberline, at the head of his plan, descended sharply from the place where he stood, the Horseman took after him with a snarl. Such an assemblage of youth and agie speed naturally attracted the creature to take after him faster, tearing through trees and shrubs after him. Gunshots had failed and throwing his fists at him just did not work, Abberline; after leading the villain back to where they started for an amount of time, stopped; and, as the little cavalcade passed, almost involuntarily pulled away his fist, balled it up and punched the Hessian hard in his white face. It was merely to stun him, and as he snarled loudly and covered his eye that wept blood, he instantly recollected the features of the blade in the trunk of the tree, to whom he had once seen and almost danced with it. At that time he thought to act, drawing it clean and raising it heavily, both hands at hilt and yelling almighty laurel as he brought it down on the Horseman.

A blush of horror and astonishment suffused the Inspector's cheeks as the tip of the blade hit against the floor, awakening as he heard the faint patter of blood hitting against tree leaves and the Hessian's head rolling a short length away from his body.


	29. What If

**Disclaimer.**

**  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.  
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**  
I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

****Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

In the course of just twenty minutes many changes had taken place; Ichabod had become very dissipated and his energy was quickly becoming used. His profusions knew no bounds, and he was taken off by rapid fever, his affairs found in so harrowing a state that his pains grew more torturesome as the minutes dragged. No longer was he fixed onto his knees, he had long since been able to ease back and lie back pressed against a tree trunk. It had used the last of his leg strength, and now he was joined to the ground as he suffered. The pain, comparative only with the greatest of excruciation, seemed to oblige to come and pass at its own content, leaving the unfortunate Ichabod to fear when it would next favour over him. He had greatly wept, knowing not of Abberline. He had not seen him since his liberation from the Horseman, and he confessed to weeping more for the Inspector's safety then his own sustains. He had come at his own desire, and there had so been a time when Ichabod had never desired him to return. Mark him, that connection was at an end. Should Abberline be provided his death, Ichabod know he was done forever and would favour no other. Ichabod's body started wildly as a sharp and sudden spasm of pain entreated him, he tensed and his arms threw themselves around him as he cried out. Mercy, kill the suffering man, for pity's sake. Should his lover be dead he had no desire to live through anything, do not doubt his fidelity. Do not leave him to this horrid situation, for the sake of the unborn child. Spurn not the wretched man from it.

'Ichabod .. !'

It was a voice so weary and exhausted, that cried with such desperation Ichabod had heard. A striking example of hope prospered, that Ichabod deared would not end in misery and shame. His voice could not deal back, as an agony resolved inside and forced him silent as he doubled over.

'Ichabod .. wh .. where are you .. !' It was nearer, and more despairing.

Consulting some innerborn strength, the constable managed to gasp through the thick of such an intense fevour. Desperate for him not to wander away, 'F-Frederick! I am .. h-here! I am _here_!'

The resonance led him to think that pleasure at again beholding him might have occasioned the emotion he had witnessed, and the same feeling led him to wish to see him again. Arriving at the verge of the scatter of trees, he dismounted the slope and reached Ichabod's side, and sending his eyes to look at him, proceeded toward the heightened place of anguish, where, in the midst of an extensive pleasure ground, stood the mountain which contained such despondency. More watchful than those famed he became, moving closer to him releasing Ichabod's balled fist, and by taking his hand in his own, guarded him. He leant almost sleeping into the tree trunk, blood fresh still on his chin.

'Are you a'right?' Abberline uttered in a breathless manner.

Ichabod had been quick to notice his blood, 'Your hurt .. '

'Wha', this?' The Inspector trailed his lower lip with his thumb, gently smirking as he wiped his top onto his mudied trousers. 'Be good as new after a good wash.'

Greatly as Ichabod had reason to inquire Abberline, he could not behold him in that distress without some emotions of pity. He wanted only to have him, speak nothing of the past few days and remember them only as they had been. 'Frederick, I love you.'

Their hands still sheltered in each other, Abberline muttered tiredly. 'Ichabod .. ?'

'No, I never told you enough .. you were always telling me, always, but I never .. I just _never_ .. Oh, oh_ God_ .. '

The Inspector was a man every way calculated to take the care of Ichabod, and that care had entirely devolved on himself as he watched Ichabod collapse breathless and in pain; it was impossible to attend anything else from there, Abberline the kind of man whose conversation and morals were entirely in the correct place. With such delicacy and refinement, he held unto Ichabod's hand, which had gripped tighter in his own.

'What, Ichabod, wha' is it?' He said attentively, 'Is it th'baby?'

' .. I, I never told you how much I really _cared_,' Ichabod managed to continue as it began to subside, 'You must believe me, I'm not .. I'm _not _a heartless monster .. '

'No, no I don't 'fink you are, o'course not.' The Inspector, adding to a pleasing person and the devotion of a gentleman. 'We need to get ye' to a hospital or some'fink .. '

'I was so afraid that you meant it.'

'Meant what?'

Ichabod, breathing rapidly in short gasps began to bleed surpressed tears, crying through pain. 'That .. that you could have been happier, without me.'

Among the emotions swimming inside the Inspector as of that moment, guilt managed to break through to the surface with a strength. A liberal spirit and manner charged him, holding onto Ichabod's hand and taking the side of his face in his other. He was recommended to a tenderness by a sentiment whose humanity overstepped the bounds of discretion; beginning to spill tears himself.

'Jesus Ichabod, I didn't mean a 'fing I said that night .. now look, we'll talk about it later, yeh?' He began to smile, his tears heightening the beauty within his eyes. 'What we're goin' t'do now is goto a hospital, and have a baby. _Our _baby.'

For though Ichabod was known, he was not known to weep so excessively, and for on coming pain and affection he looked deep within Abberline's glistening eyes. Dealing through the awful sensation with just deeper and slower breaths. 'Our baby .. ?'

'Yeh, _our _baby. Yours, mine. And its' goin' t'be beautiful, jus' like you.' He addressed Ichabod open to all moral duties and finding himself refused to the most abject want, and believing the penitence which he professed to be sincere, he took Ichabod's arm and strew it round his shoulders, careful as he helped his waist and began to lift him. 'Now come on, I'm gettin' y'to a hospital.'

* * *

As Abberline stepped from the chaise to go for the infirmary, he returned his arms into the coach and his heart expanded as he helped Ichabod from inside the coach, handling him as careful as a beloved child. The transition was not without its horrible pain, having grown more intense through the journey into the town. Despairing and sympathetic affections ran through the Inspector's heart as he supported Ichabod, twining his arm around his shoulder and bearing through every agonized cry and groan he produced. With the chaise stopped, he finally alighted with the sensations of a frightened and distressed young man; so much do the emotions of the soul influence the body. As luck would have it, the night had grown so late the town was practically dead. They were benighted as they took into place, involved in the darkness and shrouded with the shades of night. The progeny was growning close to wanting be birthed, as it had born adorned and suffered the minds of both men. Ichabod had foolishly thought away from the throes of childbirth during the gravidation period, burying it as if it did not exist. He knew not what to feel through the severe distress inside him, whether filial joy or terrible dread, or a sense of gratitude and pride for his dear partner, Abberline. He had twined himself around his heart and opened such new sense of delight to his view, had it not been for the suffering of the childbed, he would have almost forgetten he had ever been unhappy.

'Wha's yer doctor's name?' Abberline asked him as they limped down the corridor.

' Wh .. what ... ?' He gasped between words, bended right over.

'Come on Ichabod, stay wiv' me, wha's yer doctor's name?'

Ichabod furrowed his brow as though he had to think about it deeply himself. 'Rolfe .. Doctor Rolfe.'

The Inspector glanced his eye carefully over him, then looked ahead as he was determined to alight the poor young man. 'A'right, we'll go find 'im. Your goin' t'be alright.'

'But what if, Frederick .. what _if_?' Ichabod said with despair, holding his aching stomach under his arm.

'What if _what_?' Abberline replied. 'What if the sky fell tommorow and the clouds fuckkin' smothered us?'

The attentions of the Inspector to Ichabod were very pointed, so much so, that Abberline was resolved should they continue. The young constable replied to him with a heavy breath, 'What if I am not here tommorow to see that sky fall?'

Eyes in anticipation, and indeed in reality, were very pleasant lo' to those engaged in them, but most insufferably dull in detail. It would therefore be sufficient to say that Abberline could not let the comment pass. Ge had endeavored to rectify some of his romantic notions, and in some measure he had succeeded, but he knew enough of human nature, to be quite aware that when love and romance unite in the mind of a volatile young man, there is scarcely a possibility of restraining him from taking his own way. Yet he felt it his duty to inquire into the circumstances of dear Ichabod, holding his cheek. He had lost his beautiful Victoria, he would not lose his beautiful Ichabod too.

'Look, we're goin' to get through this together, alright?' He said, with the understanding of an angel of mercy. 'I'm not goin' t'hurt you anymore, and I'm not leavin' you. If that's what y'want.'

God Bless, for a kinder soul had never lived. 'Frederick .. I-I _do_ .. ' He found himself sinking, as the rhythmic tightening inside began again; though this time mercilessly almighty. Rather than murmer a groan or utter a whimper of pain, he favoured to express a loud cry with a bowed head. His voice ringing and re-sounding down the corridor; and almost immediately a door was rushed open. In a voice rendered scarcely aggitated, the men were demanded of as the Inspector attempted to comfort Ichabod.

'What on earth is happening? Is someone being _attacked_?'

Just so it happened with as the Inspector raised his head, he no scruple of mentioning the cruel conduct to a poor distressed younh man who claimed his protection; joined in reprobating his inhumanity; a protection seared over his heart to which the sorrows of Ichabod could find a vulnerable part. 'Are you a doctor?'

'What have you done to that young man!' He was staring at Ichabod, who was hidden beneathed his bowed dark hair.

'Bloody hell, jus' answer! Are y'a doctor!'

'I am summoning the police!'

'No, Doctor .. please, he did nothing .. ' Ichabod opened in Abberline's defense, raising his head and his hair falling away from his face. Eyes sunken and tired and his skin a sickly shade of the penitence which he professed to be sincere, the man took him into his own consideration, and from thence recommended himself to escort him elsewhere, as thinking the situation more suitable to a man of his abilities.

'Constable Crane,' He addressed, attention away from Abberline. 'I am sorry, I had not seen you.'

As the young man's face crumpled in breathless agitation, the Inspector spoke for him. 'Your Doctor Rolfe?'

'Yes, sir.'

His un-nerved hands trembled terribly, but refused to release Ichabod. 'Please, can you help 'im?'

'Perhaps you might like to come into my office?'

Thus encouraged, the Inspector again ad-dressed his attentive determination, and gingerly he assisted Ichabod. They entered, but how changed was the scene, a clean though coarsely furnished bed stood in one corner of the room ; the old wooden frame had been removed ; the room was neatly swept and sanded, a new sauce pan was by the fire, in which hot water was boiling, the sick man was placed on the clean bed befitting its station, and Abberline also appeared in better meditations whilst now in a doctor's well care. Every thing wore such a look of comfort, that they thought she had mistaken the place.

'I had been expecting you for a few days now, constable.' The doctor said, shrugging away and parting with his out coat that he had been prepared to leave in. He hung it on a peg.

Ichabod, with breathless frustration, was hunched over the side of the bed, looking painfully up at the man as Abberline waited at his side. 'Rolfe .. can you help me?'

Thus every circumstance coincided to establish the general idea entertained that Abberline was the independent man he once painted himself to be. A young person of rank, with only a moderate fortune, and Ichabod, the destitute, depending on the kindness of the Inspector and Doctor. Another circumstance contributed to the mistake. Rolfe, though hir guardian job allowed him a very handsome stipend for clothes and pocket money, was yet extremely simple in his attire, his apparel was ever of the best quality, but it was unostentatious, no display of splendor, no glitter or finery disfigured his interesting person ; and he scarcely ever purchased a handsome article of dress for public occasions, without presenting something of the same kind, perhaps more elegant or of a finer texture than his own. With that same air of courteous richness, he nodded to the poor and pained man.

Abberline cut in, 'Can y'give him sum'fing for th'pain?'

'Not at this stage, no.'

'What d'ye mean, not at this _stage_?' He said, with a spice of frustration as he stood from Ichabod's side and faced Rolfe. 'He'll keel over with it!'

But there was no immediate call on the integrity of the conscientious doctor on this account, 'It simply isn't _safe_.'

'I can't just stand 'ere while he's miserable with pain!'

'Do not tell me my job, sir.'

'Yer just fine with your patients sittin' and sufferin', is that it?'

As the two men quarrelled, the constable had sunk upon the pillow of the bed, pale and almost lifeless. The volatile flight revived him and his ears merely heard what was said between them, who sought to serve him. Receiving more excruciating smarting and ache from the effects of which he still continued to suffer, and that he sometimes labored under slight fits of insanity. His eyes rolled back and lids fell, his head limp on the pillow as his panting stopped. The poor man appeared to be surrounded by good will, yet was still miserable - and with fainting he only for a while, was able to forget. He went un-noticed for a short while while the men continued to argue for just a few minutes more.


	30. A Perfect Love

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**

* * *

**

It may be asked by those, who, in a world of the kind, love to cavil at every trifling omission, whether Ichabod did not possess any valuable of which he could have disposed, and by that means have supported himself till his conscious state returned, when he would have been receiving every tender attention which compassion and friendship could dictate: but let be entreated the wise, penetrating gentlemen to reflect, that when his spirit temporarily left him, it was in such haste that there was no time to purchase any thing more than what was a black veil over his head benighting him from the world outside. Neglected away and left to rest. Hours had passed, the night declining into very early morning; so early it was still dark outside as the snow fanned heavy outside his window. He possessed not one imperfection to the fond lover, his pale skin a tone less sickly as it was warmed by the sparked fire just aside the room and his clothes clean. For an affectionate amount of time his forehead had been gently dabbed with a cool flannel as he silently waited to wake and by no force would his lover be parted with him. He hesitated as he began to stir; know a very gentle touch was stroking his hair away from his forehead and engaged into lovingly touching his face. Disturbed by his strength whose appearance spoke of so little consequence, yet something in his countenance interested him in his favour and began to pull him awake.

'Frederick?' Ichabod whispered, eyes barely open and his hand relaxed open. At his bedside Abberline agreed with the captivating external, to offer to take his hand, and in so devote his life to his happiness.

'How y'feelin'?' He asked, his voice just as quiet.

Shelter that night beneath his hospitable watch was some relief, as he was distracted from the sunken comfort of the bed by a gentle smarting of the surface of his stomach. He was too weak to inspect, so merely lay back his eyes barely adjusting to the candlelit room. 'Peculiar.' He uttered, frowning slightly. 'What happened .. ?'

Abberline chuckled in an undertone, 'Y'fainted, you predictable bugger.' His eyes were red from earlier weeping, what soul but would have felt highly flattered by the attention of one of the handsomest officers of the corps to which he belonged, a man of honour, and perfect rectitude of conduct, high in the esteem of person; ages of the first rank, and known to be in possession of a handsome fortune who thus avowedly love him for himself alone. 'The baby's fine too.'

Only now did Ichabod's eyes fully widen, his clutch on Abberline's hand tighter. 'The .. baby?'

Lingering a moment, he was a striking example of meek happiness. 'Yeh, you were out long enough f'r Rolfe to do a quick cut and take.' Contrived to be so joyous and not let it be so observed, only a slight smile tinctured on his lips. 'She's th'most beautiful 'fing.'

When he perceived the Inspector's attentions to be serious, and supposed that he imagined this supposed baby to be as he said, he felt his real situation explained to him. And with the news his eyes flared and he tried to sit up, insisting upon it even though he winced as he gingerly tried to sit his body; the freshish stitching on his stomach smarting as he moved.

'Dont try 'un move, lie back down.'

He ignored him, insistant. '_She_? It is a girl?'

'Yeh, a daughter.' Abberline answered. His jacket had long since been removed and where Rolfe's coat had been, assuming he had left now. Person and manner tired from the lack of rest, having sat at Ichabod's vigil the entire night. Ichabod's hand found his mouth, eyes lost as he felt a charm in his heart that he did not know he could feel. Only pray that that beginning would not end lead only to shame; as he tried to picture this child in his head.

'I have a daughter.' He whispered.

'Sounds weird when y'say it out loud, don't it?'

So timid a young man from dependence to a state of comparative affluence, he determined to scrutinize his conduct, mark his disposition and should all agree with the captivating external, breath steady. 'Have you .. _seen_ her?'

The Inspector replied; 'Rolfe handed 'er to me when she was born.'

'.. What does she look like?'

'Gorgeous.' The Inspector replied. 'I knew she'd be beautiful, any child of yours wuz' bound t'be.'

But Ichabod possessed too much of the spirit of intrigue to remain long without adding to him, his voice a breathless mutter. 'Any child of ours.'

Their hands and hearts joined one more time. Content could blunt even the arrows of adversity, so that they cannot materially harm. Through this they had passed, smoothing the rough paths and tread to earth those thorns which every one must meet with as they journey onward to the appointed goal. The pains of sickness softened, and the cold gloomy hour of death gone by, and, they found themselves cheated with heaven-born smiles that would hopefully, lead them triumphant into blissful eternity.

'Ichabod?' Abberline broke the silent, to which the young man made a small acknowledging noise from his throat.

He continued, 'I really am sorry y'know.'

Ichabod sighed, 'Frederick .. '

'No, listen t'me. I was roarin' drunk and outta my head. I was so sure I wuz' going to'lose you, I just lost sight of when t'stop.' His eyes lamely fell, thinking of the dark hours he would spend with his mistress of opium, absinthe, and the blade. 'I didn't want to'hurt you, that wuz' the last 'fing on my mind. I .. I guess I jus' wanted t'hurt myself.'

The fragile constable managed a tired smile, 'You came back for me, that is all I care for now. Had I just the strength, I would be on my knees thanking you.'

The Inspector had already tilted his arm so he couch touch Ichabod's cool hand with his face, sighing as he met with the softness of his palm. 'I told you, I'm not going t'hurt you. Not anymore.'

A voice from the doorway; 'Excuse me.'

But to return, content dwelt in Abberline's heart as he felt a smile touch him, and spread a charming animation over his countenance as he noticed it to be Rolfe, carrying a pale blanketed bundle in his arms, as he lead himself in he lay his own grin as he stayed a careful distance.

'I do hope I am not disturbing you.' He said.

Abberline shook his head, 'No, no' at all Doctor.'

Rolfe obliged a few steps more to the side of Ichabod's bed, patting softly the pale blanket. 'I thought Constable Crane might like to meet his daughter after all that.'

The very basis of true peace of mind is a benevolent wish to see all the world as happy as one's Self; and from his soul did he pity the selfish churl, who, remembering the little bickerings of anger, envy, and fifty other disagreeables to which frail mortality is subject, would wish to revenge the affront which pride whispers him he has received. Never had Ichabod felt such a mix of terror and anticipation before, for his own part, he could declare, there was not a human being in the universe, whose prosperity he should not rejoice in, and to whose happiness he could not contribute to at last fully inside Abberline's heart. But oh, what offended and threatened that joy then what would be that child's eyes. As he was slid the little girl, the doctor stole his leave. Ichabod took a few moments before looking down at her. Remembering in the day of general retribution than as from his soul could possibly forgive every offence or injury received from this little creature.

His daughter. What pleasure expands the heart of a man when he beholds the progeny of himself for the first time in his arms, grown in every virtue that adorned the mind. Ichabod cast his eye over her: a pellucid drop had stolen from his eyes, and tracked down his cheek. The black rose of bitterness soon fades when watered by the tear of affliction. She was fair as the lily as she slept, but sorrow had nipped the rosy glow in her cheek before it had even touched the daylight. Her eyes were closed; and her hair, which was a dark shade, was so feathery fine, illuminating her porcelain pale face as smooth and silken soft as a white feather. A white linen gown and plain mitten gloves composing her sweetness. Her dear little face and in this simple attire, she was more irresistibly charming to such a heart.

She breathed like the gentle hum of a whispering breeze as Ichabod found he was studying her every detail, 'She is ... is, so .. '

'So,_ what_?'

' .. Real.'

Almost involuntarily the Inspector had slid a finger into her tiny, warm palm. Her fingers unconsciously holding, as sweet and fair as the white rose of vale. 'Y'still givin' her away then?'

Ichabod paused, and then looked at him. 'Frederick .. like you, I said things under a certain influence.' He explained, his voice having at least some strength. As though holding his small daughter might have spirited him a shred of power. ' .. I was something I am not normally known to be.'

Abberline frailty smirked, 'Wussat, then?'

'Emotional.'

As they shared a quiet chuckle between them, the Inspector arose from his seat and entered the bed beside Ichabod. Careful as he sat himself, letting his arm around Ichabod's shoulders with great cordiality, and offered to lean the side of his face atop Ichabod's head of somewhat now unkempt hair. With evident composure, he sighed into Ichabod's dark mane and for the first time in a great while, felt himself smile on the inside. Here Abberline was lost in room of three; wiping off a tear which he was afraid would tarnish the cheek of a lawman and loving partner. He kissed the corner of Ichabod's forehead, heart wrung barely to remember sorrow as he looked down at the slumbering baby. Stroking her silken soft cheek with the tip of his finger.

'Your a perfect love you are, darlin',' The Inspector uttered. 'A perfect love.'

* * *

**Author's Note; We're not finished just yet, my dear readers.**


	31. Appendages and Elegances

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**

* * *

**

Being asked how he found himself, Ichabod replied; 'Better, doctor. I hope now I have little left to suffer.'

Rolfe nodded at the foot of the bed where Ichabod had lay for the past day and a half. He could see Ichabod had last night but a few hours sleep, his eyes barely open and his skin a dull white as he reclined into the bed pillow, barely a light in his eye. When he awoke he had recovered the full power of recollection. He am quite sensible of his weakness; but felt he had but little longer to combat with the shafts of affliction. A humble confidence in the mercy of himself who half died to save the life of his child, and trust that his sufferings in this state of mortality, joined to my unfeigned repentance, through his mercy, had blotted forever his offences from the sight of his offended maker, thanks to beloved Abberline - who had returned for a night's sleep. The stitching in his skin may have made answering with a positive demeanor difficult, but he had but one care - his sweet daughter, who slept fair and gentle in a cradle at his bedside.

He looked from the doctor to her, lowering his eyes. Of his infinite goodness, grant that the sins of the parent be not visited on the unoffending infant. May those who taught him to despise the laws be forgiven; lay not his offences to her charge, he beseeched. Shower the choicest of blessings on those whose pity had soothed the afflicted heart, and made easy even the bed of pain and sickness.

The doctor added. 'Constable, you have a visitor. Should I show them in?'

Ichabod's brow furrowed, somewhat confused. But nonetheless muttered a, 'Yes.' and Rolfe took his leave.

He leant back furthur, exhausted by this fervent address to the throne of parturition, and though his lips still moved his voice became inarticulate: he lay for some time as if he were in a doze, and then recovering, faintly turned his head as he heard the door open, and drew in a light breath, focusing his eyes and his voice a breathless utterance.

'Katrina .. '

As she arrived, she joined into the room and pressed the door closed behind her. Her expression could not be comprehended properly, it was a half way point between sorrow and a smile. Frequently mentioning in her face ingratitude as what lay most heavy in her heart, but walking quiet to his side and seated gently herself on the edge of his bed.

'I have been searching for you,' She said.

Raising his eyes up at her, he could not raise his voice to the same level. 'Well, it seems you found me.'

Katrina performed a solemn increase of her smile, preparing to speak a little furthur when she looked past him, noticing a pale cradle. Her eyes flickered, 'Is that .. ?'

'Yes, a girl.'

Katrina's face enquired him, but turned as she prepared to walk to the cradle and behold the cause. She presented herself to the baby's bed, and as she drew nearer she caught herself frequently looking for signs that she should keep away. By way of apology to her own heart, she convinced herself that resolution is not to be shaken, and then in her mind feel much easier.

'May I?' She asked Ichabod.

'Of course.'

Looking down into the cradle at the minute little girl, who had quietly wakened minutes before and not uttered a murmer, the lady began to dip her arms into quilted white comforts, gingerly taking the baby and holding her with all likelihood. The child tilted and rested easily into her chest, eyes dark as her hair narrowed and blinking in numerous directions. Katrina felt herself charmed with the innocence and manners of the girl - ney, feeling how proud and happy she would have felt to give life to such a lovely creature.

'She is beautiful,' Katrina said, 'How she resembles you, Ichabod.'

Dependent to a state of comparative clemency, Ichabod faintly smiled. 'I thought she looked like my mother.'

'You must look like your mother.'

This only influenced Ichabod's smile, 'Some might say,' He replied. 'Actually .. for some years I had always sworn if I ever had a daughter I would name that child after her.'

She perceived Ichabod's attentions, interested. 'And will you keep your word?'

'I think so.'

Katrina re-assumed her place on the bed, letting the baby sink into her lap, 'What was your mother's name?'

'Rebecca,'

'Rebecca.' Katrina echoed, patting the child. The name was Hebrew like his own, meaning captivating. She was, too. 'Ichabod,' She raised her eyes to him, 'I came so I might apologize.'

He could not quite take her view, his eyes narrowing. 'Apologize? Why?'

'I had known for a while that things were not well between us, and I chose to ignore it and keep you with me.' She said. 'Had I really cared for you, I would have let you be happy.'

No answer was made. Letting a silence for a short moment, she looked away, 'If I had really_ loved _you, I would have let you go.'

The latter end of her sentence brought a buried guilt up in Ichabod, gingerly sitting himself up and visiting her lost face. His hand rested on her wrist. 'Katrina .. you are an intelligent .._ lovely_, young woman. You can find another.' Thus answered the gentle man: and in the execution of so laudable a resolution.

The young lady shook her head, smiling though. Her displease at no longer being the object of his affections withered, 'If my dear Brom were to raise from his grave now and lead me into the sunset, that still would only wetten my taste for love.'

'I shall never care for a man the way I cared for you, Ichabod.' Katrina never uttered a syllable to him that could be construed into any thing more than that politeness and gallantry of a gentlewoman. ' .. But I will settle to be your friend if it will make you happy, if you would let me.'

It was a very fine evening, but as the sun descended, a dark cloud received the glorious orb, which as it shrouded, lit his gentle smile and heightened his beauty as the warm light came into the room.

'I would like that.'

'You are a fine man, Ichabod.' She said. 'Whoever has your heart now .. they are lucky to have you.'

Then, looking steadfastly at the advancing cloud outside the window, she sighed as she gave the baby to Ichabod. That cloud was an emblem of misfortune overwhelming for a while the virtuous; which, though for a time it may prevent their general usefulness, and obscure the splendor of their actions, cannot entirely hide their brilliancy, but catches, as it were, a glory from the radiance it partially obscures.

Before Katrina had reached the infirmary, the cloud had spread rapidly, and fine drops of rain had fallen, so that her muslin dress was but a poor defence, and was easily dampened. Her hair too. She had thrown a lace mantle over her shoulders when she had began her walk. Her redundant hair fell over her face and still she was radiant. Her straw wicker basket was at her ankles, and fiddling her hand she divested an item and offered it to Ichabod.

'Here, a favour.' He knew the item she was holding immediately, the cardinal-cage plaything that held so much sentimental value to him. 'I thought you might want it.'

'Thank you.' Ichabod said, taking it and resting it on the bedside table. His attentions were again on his child nestled in his arm, on her head was a pale, brimless bonnet that seemed slightly too large for her head. Her eyes were partially hidden, her bud-like lips moving only slightly as she searched for a way to move the terrible item off. Ichabod had on his face a grin of humour, it was like a veil thrown over the face of a beautiful girl, which shades, but cannot diminish her loveliness. He removed it with just a pinch of his finger and thumb, looking at Katrina.

'She has an eye for wonder.' He said softly.

'_Your_ eye for wonder,' Katrina replied, beginning to stand. This delicate conduct was not lost upon her, and raised the young man in the estimation of spirits. 'I must take my leave now.'

He was candid with her. Happiness to him appeared unattainable unless in a union with the Inspector, but he had to consult his conscience, and he once feared he would never consent to his changing the venerated name. Ichabod knew fortune has not been an object with him, for he loved and would have been forever with Abberline. Though he had nothing but his imaluable self to bestow; he could not reconcile it to his own sense of integrity to despoil her of so fair an independence.

'I am glad we could be friends.' Ichabod said.

Katrina would wear a smile on her face, though the thorn rankled in her heart; and if by so doing, she in the smallest degree contribute to restore his peace of mind, she would be amply rewarded for the pain the concealment of her own feelings. 'Take care of her.' She said. 'Goodbye.'

'Goodbye Katrina.' He watched her leave out the door, which entitled her to those appendages and elegances, which his moderate fortune could not afford, as great a relief it was to have her at least allevated - her pain more bearable as they parted as friends. Persevered in the course of integrity, and perhaps things may have turned so as to obviate these difficulties. At any rate he would avoid self-reproach; and when happiness was so hardly attainable in tthe world, that it would be a pity if he did not recollect his new too eagerly pursuing it, to run the risk of mingling gall with the honey.

Ichabod held out his hand, eyes evidently content as he took his mother's remembrance and felt her, followed the fortunes of the hapless victim of imprudence and evil counsellors. The severest scrutiny could not charge him with any breach of duty to have deserved the severe chastisement, he would bow before the power who inflicted it with humble resignation to his will; nor shall the duty of a parent be totally absorbed in the feelings of the one who bore the child alone; he endeavoured to appear more cheerful, and by appearing in some measure to have conquered his own sorrow, alleviate the sufferings of the past, and rouse him from that torpor into which this misfortune has plunged him.

'Rebecca,' He uttered very softly, presenting the disc object infront of the baby. The string straight and unslacked between his fingers. 'Watch.'

As he began to spin, the illusion took place and the little girl's eyes glittered; as though she were truly enchanted. Being the natural family to the baby would too demand care and attention: but he must not, by a selfish indulgence of his own, forget the new interest that the dear, sweet infant took in his happiness; and heart.


	32. Latter December

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE; I've re-submitted this chapter with a few alterations - I just felt it was way too short, plus it might be nice to hear a little background. Information was taken from accounts of the actual Inspector Abberline that was not put into the movie, but what the hey. It's just a little fun.**

**

* * *

**

Day after day, and in all a week, passed on while Ichabod was slowly endeavoring to cultivate the understandings of nurturing a child, fortifying the principles, and, by air and exercise, invigorating the frames of his newborn. During the seven pleasant days, masters in bathing and feeding from Doctor Rolfe, attended him. Ichabod employed himself, imparting what he had gained to his next-to-no knowledge of parenting. In his leisure hours he sat at the baby's cradle and watched her sleep. Thus his health had improved in a far greater degree, by the attention necessary to bestowed on every acquirement in which he was desirous to take. There were many genteel families in the city, but probably none visited on a more intimate footing.

Ichabod was dressing in the anechoic chamber where he had entered laboured, born his child, and dwelled for the last seven days. He found thews he was becoming fondly attached and sick to death both at once of the place where he had passed the few days. Sensible it was that he should be re-introduced to the world soon, but what would he say to those who knew him, as he walked the streets with a baby carriage? Most likely be called upon to act a prominent part, and about the latter of December, he might just commence leaving the hospital at last.

'Ay',' A sound startled him as he buttoning his shirt, turning and hearing it pursue into a chuckle. 'Di'n't scare you did I?'

Ichabod saw him gratified, a beam of exulting joy playing round his countenance at these encomiums bestowed on him by a beloved Inspector, the most delightful sensations pervaded his heart, and, finishing up the buttoning of his shirt, noticed the lily he was holding in hand. 'Is that for me?'

Abberline frowned like it were obvious, 'No, this is f'r the little one.' He said, placing it on a deskside as he strode leisurely to Ichabod, taking him in arms. '_This_ is f'r you.'

Without waiting or warning, he kissed Ichabod's mouth. Taking his breath completely and surprising him as he touched his tongue to his, with a tentativness. The Inspector's kiss was passionate, full of ardent and powerful emotion as he applied lips and heart. So calm though, he seemed so at ease as he stroked Ichabod's hair away with just a brush of the backhand. He longed for these meetings between the two of them, though few and farther between than he preferred, they were the only time he was able to satisfy this necessary selfishness. He was Abberline's addiction, and moderation was the key. At first he had tried to understand the stirrings deep in his psyche that pulled him relentlessly in his direction. Perhaps the punishment of it all. The giddy flutters in the fantastic round of dissipation, who eagerly sought pleasure in the lofty dome of the room, rich treat, and midnight revel - but could it be said by the thoughtless sons of ill luck that they had found the phantom they so long sought with such unremitted unflagging effort Ichabod had eluded its grasp since boyhood, and when reached his hand to take the cup devotion and tender caring extended to his deluded scientific votaries, had he not found the long-expected draught strongly tinctured with the bitter dregs of disappointment? In the past, he could answer a truthful yes - yet now as he broke from the Inspector and breathed out an air of warm ardour, there wasn't a way he could flatter himself with such a resolution.

Ichabod broke away so he could at last breath, feeling a light blush pinch his cheeks. ' .. It has been so long since you've kissed me that way.'

That grin had become a great favourite on the Inspector's face, 'Well, been tough times innit? S'ides .. that's only 'alf your present.'

'_Frederick_,' Ichabod blushed furthur, his hanging hair hiding the pinching pink in his cheek as he meakly grinned. ' .. I've only _just_ had a baby, you know well.'

He broke a laugh, 'Well, you'd be surprised at 'ow long I'd be willing t'wait.' He did not wait for other mention, his laugh fading and a look that declared a soft fondness dispatching his face, with good quality. 'You'd be surprised at what I'd be willing t'do for you, Ichabod.'

'You don't need to prove yourself to me, you _truly_ don't.'

'Yeh .. ' Abbberline closed his eyes, nodding. 'Yeh .. I_ truly_ do.'

While they had been enjoying some degree of comfort in a consoling meet and advancing rapidly in their affections toward each other, the Inspector began to quieten. Ichabod was an amiable young man barely through his twenties; he saw only the fair side of his character; he possessed an independent beauty, and resolved to be happy with the man of his heart, though his rank and fortune were by no means so exalted as he had a right to expect; he saw the passion which Abberline struggled to conceal; he wondered at his timidity, but imagined something was advancing in the air.

'Ichabod,' The Inspector spoke, the distance fortune had placed between them occasioned his backwardness. 'Can I ask you sum'fink?'

And made every advance which strict prudence and a becoming modesty would permit. 'Of course.'

Abberline saw he was not indifferent to him, but a spark of honour which animated him would not suffer him to take advantage of him kindness. 'What did you mean, in that note you sent t'me .. _Remember New York_?'

Ichabod's soul shuddered. When he communicatd, it was with an uneasiness to Abberline. It was the very thing the man had wished. Hesitate, did the lovely Ichabod, but spoke eventually. 'I wanted to give you a reminder. Of New York .. of _me_, for .. ' He stopped, looking away shyly. ' .. For when you returned to London.'

The discussion now was closed; a serene stillness reigned; and the chaste moonlight with her silver crescent faintly illuminated the hemisphere. The mind of Abberline was hushed into composure by the serenity of the surrounding objects. 'Ichabod .. do you 'ave any family?'

'What?'

Assumed as composed an aspect as possible, the Inspector continued. 'I've just .. never thought t'ask before.'

With a contemplating sigh he summoned all his resolution and determined to make Abberline acquainted with the circumstance preceding his unfortunate family life, 'Well .. ' Ichabod began, sitting himself down and his eyes absently wandering away. 'I suppose the only worth mentioning would be my mother.'

'Oh,' With the benignant aspect of a kind angel the Inspector sat besdie him, listening to the artless tale. 'She live 'ere in New York then, hm?'

And the earnest desire he had to quit a way of life so repugnant to his feelings. 'She doesn't live at all.'

Surprised to the soul, Abberline swallowed and lowered his head. 'Oh .. m'sorry.'

'No, it's alright.' He slowly shook his own head as he reflected, giving himself time to collect his scattered spirits. 'Til' now I had considered myself the last in the line, until Rebecca.'

'Rebecca?'

A conscious glow stole his face as he faced the Inspector. 'That is what I want to call the baby.' His voice lowered. 'If you'll give assent.'

Quickly the Inspector grinned, patting the knee of the friend of his life, the heightener of all his joys, the consoler of all his sorrows, the only person he had truly ever loved. Leaving behind the transitory sphere of his past life for a more blissful region. 'O' course. It's a beau'iful name.'

From so long the world had appeared a blank. Not even the endearing cheerfulness of Godley, the affectionate sympathy of Mary, could call him back to any enjoyment in life. He had endeavored several times to nerve his feelings to the performance of his tasks, and had blamed himself for thus procrastinating it. But from several symptoms of failure in his mental and bodily vigor, he felt it would not be long before he follow his regretted wife into the world of spirits. Thank christ for new love, it had quite possibly saved him from becoming the ghost the sergeant always told him he would be.

'Do you have family?' Ichabod broke the silence.

Consulting a slight chuckle, he answered. 'Now why would y'be interested in that?'

'Because.'

'Right, when y'put it that way .. ' Laugh fading, Abberline expected to see himself become a quieter man in the course of the next few moments. Made confidant of many sorrows, which had sunk deep into his heart and alighted at the sight of the beautiful little girl. He knew that he would not mention his dear Victoria for fear his mind would wander from the sweet babe. 'Well, there was me mother n' father, raising four children in a little shop in London.'

Ichabod's brow rose in surprise, 'You never spoke of having siblings, Frederick.'

'Well .. none of 'em really lived past their tenth birthdays. I fink'.'

'You _think_?'

Abberline frowned as he tried to think, memory impaired after years of wear. 'Yeh, .. there was Emily, Harriett .., Edward an' me. When I was about .. six, I 'fink .. me dad died. Dunno what of, but it passed t' Emily .. then Edward. Some'ow it jus' didn't get t'me. By th' end of it, was jus' me an' mum.'

'Thank God.' Ichabod uttered, with momentous concern and abiding entirely to Abberline's tale. 'And .. what of your sister?'

'Wha',_ Harriett_?' He said, acting with a small shrug. 'I was too much a child t'remember what 'appened t'her. She jus' wasn't there one day, I always asked 'bout 'er though, never got an answer. S'pose thats why I got into investigatin', curiousity. Worked as a clockmaker 'til I could enlist into th' Metropolitan police.' The Inspector managed to crack a laugh for the sake of the atmosphere. 'Bloody job that was, clockmakin','

While he knew he was attached to him, Ichabod with an air of indifference, wished the question had never been raised and that he had never made upon to make him uneasy by mentioning his antiquity. Yet now he was determined not to let the foolish scruples of honour step between them, or the tenderness for the peace of a little girl that united their happiness. 'Well .. perhaps you might remember them too when you return to London.'

'Ichabod,' Abberline was quick, taking the constable's hand and clutching it against his chest. Lips pressed as he quickly considered, only a foolish, fond man would choose to leave his love and run away. He begged to act more like a man of sense; this whining, pining thing, who occasions so much uneasiness. 'Ichabod .. come wiv' me.'

' .. Excuse me?'

He instantly conceived the whimsical scheme of forming the happy future in his opinion for ever; he therefore stole softly his other hand, and laying himself in Ichabod's with the greatest precaution, for fear he should detest, would be in that situation discovered. 'You heard. Oh c'mon, we could make a right go of it. You, me and the baby.'

'To .. Whitechapel?'

'Fuck Whitechapel.' Abberline said, spurned the idea with a grimace. Ichabod was undistracted, unblinking and agape as he continued, 'We'll go somewhere proper, somewhere where we can raise our baby. Be a family and all that lark ... what d'ye say, Ichabod?'

Ichabod could not reply; but the delightful sensation that dilated his heart, sparkled in his intelligent eyes, and heightened the vermillion on his cheeks. Of all the pleasures of which the human mind was sensible, there was none equal to that which warmed and expanded the heart, when listening to commendations bestowed upon him by a beloved object, and conscious of having deserved them. Near weeping, he held Abberline and smiled true. Assuming the part of a tender, consoling friend; the Inspector held him in return and breathed the wonderful, warm scent of him. This was calm, this was peace. Listening but nothing to the breeze passing the curtains and remembering nothing of the accumulated miseries of their own pasts. New York might have been all Ichabod knew, but he did not listen to those arguements. With apparent composure, he stayed with Abberline in arms and did not let his smile die, even as he shed a tear.


	33. The Evil Hour

**Disclaimer.****  
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.**

**WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.**

**I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.**

**

* * *

**

**Collaberation with EmiStaw13y**

**

* * *

**

Shortly after the interment of the events in New York, Inspector Abberline, with his dear little charge and her inherent parent, set forward for England. It would be impossible to do justice to the meeting scene between them as they boarded the ship to the countryside. Every heart of sensibility could easily conceive their feelings. After the first tumult of farewell was subsided, it gave way to an anticipating joy. Ichabod gave up the chief of his time to his daughter, and as she grew up and improved, began to almost fancy she again possessed the likeness of his mother. It was about seven years after these both painful and pleasing events, that Ichabod and Abberline, having buried their history with the city, were obliged to live for a little place in the quiet of Dorset near the small village, and brought the little Rebecca with them. Moreso beautiful she had become, a lovely girl of seven years. Such an assemblage of youth and innocence naturally attracted the eye of the villagers, they stopped; and, as the little cavalcade passed, almost involuntarily tipped their hats and smiled to the child. A small, elegant girl would look back at them and return a gentle smile: instantly recollecting the features of Ichabod. Such a beauty in a child could not go un-noticed whenever she was escorted to the school yards. Their estate was in the vicinity of the romantic vale of the country. The cottage-house inhabited an old-fashioned but comfortable feel, situated on the quiet side of Dorset with a beautiful garden, and extensive but uneven grounds, laid out in a style entirely suited to the surrounding scenery. The view from the balcony in front of the house, was one of singular beauty and sublimity. A long valley stretched away into the fields and terminated by the bold and fantastic mountains. On the east, the lofty steps seemed to pierce the very heavens; whilst the towering heights of the mountains bounded the view on the west, displaying the picturesque varieties of mountain foliage and rocks. The cottages and farm-houses of the tenants were scattered about in points of view, as to afford a pleasing sort of embellishment to the landscape. Many of them were constructed of rough unhewn stone, and roofed with thick slates; and both the coverings and sides of the houses were not unfrequently overgrown with lichens and mosses, as well as surrounded with larches and sycamores.

Rebecca had finished her studies for the day, where Ichabod had so distinguished himself to afford the most favorable anticipations of her future success. He was in some doubt as to the profession which she should embrace. Inclination prompted him to devote himself to her upbringing, his constabulary ended the day he left New York. Abberline, on the other hand, saw her as just a child who should embrace the youth she still had within her; hardly anxious for her to become a successful character. She was a symbol of innocence, who he had fallen in love with the day she was born. The interesting subject of Rebecca was under consideration at the very time of events, whenever an action was performed which they transpired naturally through their natural love for her. Abberline had returned to London only once after witnessing the perfect recovery of Ichabod, and the discussion concerning his future career was renewed with considerable interest. On the evening after his return, he informed the force he was resigning and relinquishing his responsibilities as an Inspector and beginning those of a father. She was sitting in the study of Ichabod and Abberline's rather splendid home, where she had been raised since babyhood. All a family. Ichabod had been in the doorway, watching her gather away her papers and quills, and lingered just a few moments to confer on an old subject.

'Rebecca,' He said from the archway, holding a thin candle in his hand. The young daughter turned over the chair, the warm glow of the flame heightening the loveliness in her face and adding a glowing sheen to her long, dark brown hair that tumbled far past her narrow shoulders. Her silken nightgown melting at her feet as she climbed to the floor.

'Yes, father?'

'Darling, it's far past when you were supposed to be asleep.' Ichabod said sympathetically though, looking past her at the stack of paper and the slight dabble of quil ink on the desktop.

'Oh, I know .. I was going now.' Her deep dark eyes glittered with her youth.

With a quarter grin his pleasure strengthened at his well mannered, dear daughter. Welcoming her into a goodnight embrace, her head stopped just at his waist and he gave the top of her head a kiss. She knew so little of the ways of the world that had never bestowed a thought for her, and to whom she owned a great deal but was never reckoned amoung others. Judging by the gentleness of her female disposition, she should be left to her sweet naivity. Still so pure and that was how he want her stay.

'Father .. before I goto bed, could you .. ' Her sweet voice trailed away, a shy smile strengthened as she blushed. ' .. _please_?'

It was a stroke altogether expected, Ichabod thought the best way to interest his daughter in her favour would be to tell her candidly and free from prejudice to what a situation he was reduced, and how little probability there was of him ever refusing her. The girl, whose benign smile and cheerful-giving hand had strewed sweet flowers on many a thorny path through which his wayward fate forced him to pass, think not, that in condemning th unfeeling texture of the human heart. Once forgotten the spring from whence flow the comforts he enjoyed, yet no more. On his one knee, he retrieved her favourite passtime; a spinning disk etched with a faded red cardinal and on the other side an empty cage.

'Are you watching?' Ichabod uttered, his head slightly tilted back.

Rebecca's eyes were entirely confined to the disk, watching with a smile of excited joy exalting her face. 'Oh yes! Yes, I am!'

And as the string twisted between his finger tips, merging bird and cage, she looked up to the illusion as though to bright constellations, gathering new splendours from the surrounding darkness; but ah; whilst she adore the benignant rays that cheered and illumined her heart, Ichabod moured that its influence could not be extended to the unhappy ones he had left behind. Katrina, although they had an insured friendship after some seven years never would things be the same; she was scorned and that mark would forever be on her heart, whose quality as loving as always only acquainted itself with Ichabod Crane. Young Masbeth had refused to fade into the background, visiting Ichabod every fortnight in Dorset. What a young man of seventeen he had become; and a fine brotherly figure to Rebecca to. He had fallen in love with her straight away, claiming immediatly the phantom of friendship and remorse for Katrina briefly vanishing into unsubstantial air. It seemed ridiculous now that Ichabod had once thought a time without his child, for now a life without Rebecca made seem the whole world before him appear a barren waste.

Her curiosity had been gratified, and departed from her gaze she took her thin arounds around Ichabod's neck, 'Thank you father, I love you.'

With an illuminated spirit and heart, Ichabod kissed her cheek. 'I love you too, sweetheart. Now go and say goodnight to daddy and goto sleep, there's a good girl.'

With a gentle pat of her back Ichabod departed the room and took down a spiralling flight of stairs, leaving his daughter to her own. The appearances of her surrounds gave her a homely comfort, and not for a moment entertained her once the petrifying aspect of distress and penury; whose qualitie's could make tremble all those who look upon them. Rebecca caughter her own reflecting in a slightly reclining mirror, feeling no courted evils in the air. Alas poor girl, how confined was her knowledge of human and worldly nature alike, or she would have been convinced that the only way to insure the friendship and assistance of her surroundings was to ignore whatever rattle or tremor might disturb. Her own eyes were absent but caught her attention, for just a few short and sharp moments they flashed from their brown warmth to a horrific shade of blue. The dear spirits of benevolence letting them fade back to the near black colour that once tamed them.

* * *

It was nearly dark; she heard from a neighbouring steeple a solemn toll that seemed to say some poor mortal was going to their last mansion: the sound struck on the heart Rebecca, and she involuntarily stopped from brushing down her hair, when, from out her room window she saw the appearance of a funeral. Almost unknowing what she did, she followed at a small distance to the window; and as they let the coffin into the grave, she let out a quiet sigh and brushed off a tear that did honour to her heart, who it was that was just buried.

'Hey,' It did not frighten her as she had heard him coming, feeling the warm weight of his hands on her shoulders. 'What y'lookin' at darlin'?'

Abberline glanced past her out the window. Such feelings and partialities which could not fail to prove a hindrance. He felt himself sigh for seclusion and domestic enjoyment amidst the splendor of foreign courts, and longing for his sweet to see its fair prospects of green fields and smiling cottages. Abberline loved to converse with the nature in her still retreats; and if he must mingle with his fellow-men, let it not be in the vain strife for power and distinction, but rather in the delightful intercourse of social life, or in the more interesting relation of one who cared for their eternal welfare or for that of their children should they be as blessed as he.

Drawing the curtains, he turned her. 'C'mon, don't want to be lookin' at that. Give y'bad dreams.'

'Daddy, why were they putting that box into the ground?'

'Come 'ere,' He patted his lap where he sat on the edge of her bed, where she obediently sat and let him finish brushing down her long hair. If he were a rich man, the character he should most wish to figure in, would be that of a useful, benevolent, and religious country gentleman; as the advice and instruction which he could thus impart, would not arise simply from official duty, and might be rendered doubly efficient by acts of benevolence. 'Why y'askin' questions like that right before bed?'

'But why were they?' Rebecca asked passionatley, twisting her head round to him.

''Ey, stay still.' Abberline said, taking the brush away from her head and quickly returning, concentrated on the humble task at hand. 'Well .. they were puttin' it in the ground cuz' thats what y'do at a funeral.'

'A funeral?'

'Yeh,' He said, at this period of the conversation beginning to mutter. 'When a person dies, their family 'as a funeral for 'em.'

'Oh,' Astonishment was visable on the countenace of Rebecca, as she lifted her eyes to Abberline. Being satisfied that there was nothing further that she could learn, she did not attempt to analyze his feelings at thie time; but rather lean into his chest tiredly, which he rested his arm around her. 'Will you have a funeral for me when I die, daddy?'

With lingering wait, and many a pause, Abberline began to laugh lightly. 'Awh' Becky love,' He released her and let her climb under her bedcovers as the shadows of twilight had begun to fall. The rapture of those moments ; the ardent expressions of the youth ; the half-uttered conversation, the timid glances and averted looks of the little girl, and the intervals of silence full of that childlike innocence which could not be known but once all imagined. 'Y'don't 'ave to worry about that for a long time. I wouldn't let any'fing 'appen t'you.'

Content enough, Rebecca let her head recline back into the pillow, soft dark waves spilling out thick over her small frame. The remembrance of Abberline's early kindness since as far as she could remember came over her with such force at that moment, that she blinked at him and smiled as he began to tuck at her quilt and blanket, settling her comfortaly. It was some minutes before he was sufficiently composed to resume the conversation, in which he informed her through his own smile that he had given up all thoughts of public life, and resolved to devote himself to more congenial pursuits amidst the scenery of the lake country with his family.

'There y'go, all tucked in.' Abberline readily said with a highly gratified smile, leaning over the girl from where he sat. 'Now Becky, cud' y'answer yer dad a question, mm?'

'Okay,' She uttered, voice half muffled through her quilt.

It may readily be supposed that this determined love was highly approved by whatever high forced spirit let it be, it had no small influence in procuring his approbation of the suit which he then preferred for the hand of his fair girl. After a few delightful moments spent in her pretty smile, he continued with his brow high. 'Who .. does daddy love more than any'fing else in the whole wide world?'

Rebecca frowned as though she were deeply thinking, then her eyes twinkled as she made a small motion with her fingers and mouth, drawing and withdrawing. As thought smoking a without seen cigarette.

'_Oi_, y'cheeky miss!' Abberline laughed, flicking the tip of her nose slightly as she giggled with him. '_Who_ is daddy's pride 'n joy?'

Satisfied with this assurance and her giggled fading, Rebecca recovered rapidly, and, in a moment from the time she smiled shyly, 'I am.'

'Tha's right.' Abberline said, wanting it deeply impressed in her fragile mind. She looked earnestly at him, her eyes full of wonderment. Should he, forgetful of his promises, sanctify his love for her and should she forget his goodness, well, may heave forget him. He looked at her, yonder lovely child, arrayed in a white robe devoid of ornament; beholding the meekness of her countenance, the modesty of her gait. Her name spoke content in his ear, the child held in her hand the cup of true felicity. When poverty was Abberline's potion he felt the sweet child always lightened his labours and helped quieten his slumbers. When his state mediocrity, she heightened his every blessing he enjoyed, by informing him how grateful he should be to that bountiful life he lead. Rebecca relieved his distress and the redness to his injuries that had long since healed, in short she performed all the good works of peace and mercy without really trying.

'Love you, daddy.' She whispered.

Petting her hair and knowing how she had taught him to weigh his blessings, Abberline smiled as he raised. 'Love you, darlin. G'night.'

The room fell to darkness as Abberline blew out the candle wick and left the room, letting the door close but not fully. With his leave, almost immediately did the girl's will to stay awake. Thus soothed and encouraged, she fell into a deep sleep. Yet the contented blush in Rebecca's face began to fade as she drifted deeper, informed of the events which had already narrated concerning her, and the subsequent life she lead. An unconscious sorrow filled her young face, and guided her motions; beginning to toss and turn as she began to see things she did not want. Her venerable head reclined upon the pillow and her hands folded, eyes furrowed as she was a mixture of anguish and resignation depicted in her countenance, as if she would say, henceforth who shall dare to boast their happiness, or even in idea contemplate her treasure, lest, in the very moment her heart exulted in its own felicity, the object which constitutes that felicity should be torn from her; and as the night grew deeper, she began to dream of whinneying horses and the triumphant roars of battle, the sharp frightening slash of a sword as it collided with necks. In that evil hour, sealed the distinction of Rebecca.

* * *

**It took 33 chapters but that marks the end of it. Thank you for reading _The Famous Living Dead _:)**


	34. Epilogue

Welcome to the Q & A, where I'm hoping to tie up some loose ends we may have left behind;

* * *

****

1. So .. why did the Horseman want Ichabod to have his child?

We fabricated this whole theory that even when he was alive the Horseman wanted a child, but was too overwhelmed with his love of carnage to fulfill it. When he took away the Lady Van Tassel he intended to impregnate her, but because she was killed and disintergrated through Hell's portal he saw it all to be Ichabod's fault, so decided he would take her place.

****

2. Okay, so what went wrong for him?

Weeeell the problem is Ichabod had been seeing, and sleeping with, Inspector Abberline.

****

3. How did Ichabod manage to get pregnant anyway?

The Horseman cast a spell on him, then raped him. But in between time Ichabod had done the deed with Abberline, that is where the baby's paterntiy got muddled. Two people in the same night, any one of them could of been the father.

****

4. Who was Doctor Rolfe?

Doctor Rolfe is an OC we created to use as a background character that Ichabod could trust and who could tend to him.

****

5. Why did Abberline pretend to be happy?

It was for both their sakes. Though Abberline was happy that he might be a dad, he was also petrified that he wasn't - and that he might lose Ichabod. Also it sparked thoughts of his wife, Victoria, who died in childbirth.

****

6. Why did Ichabod consider killing himself?

He couldn't handle the thought of helping the Horseman in any way. Towards the first few weeks of his pregnancy Ichabod attempted to drown himself.

****

7. So .. towards the end, why did Ichabod disappear?

The Horseman kidnapped while he was alone in the house, as it was the ninth month (the winter) and he wanted to cut Ichabod open (more or less kill him) to get the baby, which he strongly believed to be a son.

****

8. And how did Abberline know where to find him?

As the Inspector is clairvoyant, he had had a vision not long earlier. It depicted blood, a forest, a sharp sword and Ichabod screaming. It took him a while to realise as he had been running all over New York looking for him, but he eventually clocked on that he should look in the woods.

****

9. What happened then?

Abberline found Ichabod, tied to the floor just before the Horseman was about to cut him. After being freed he told Ichabod to escape, where he did and unexpectedly went into labour alone while Abberline fought the Horseman - winning by cutting off his head.

****

10. Ichabod fainted in Rolfe's office, and woke up. Abberline told him he had had the baby, _how_?

Beforehand Rolfe and Abberline had been arguing about giving Ichabod drugs to numb the pain, but coincidentally Ichabod fainted and stayed fainted long enough for Rolfe to cut him, take the baby and stitch him up, a sort of C-Section I guess.

****

11. Why did Ichabod call his daughter Rebecca?

It was a token to his late mother. I actually did a little research for the name of the baby, and discovered the actual Ichabod Crane's mother was named Rebecca. There's a little insight for you guys.

****

12. The movie never mentioned Abberline having brothers and sisters.

Nope, and the movie take of Abberline probably didn't. I paid another homage to the actual historical figure of Abberline, who had two sisters and a brother. The story behind them though, I made up.

****

13. I don't understand the ending.

So we got Ichabod and Abberline, they make up after the birth of Rebecca and after abit of a tete a tete the Inspector asks Ichabod to come start a new life with him. They move and live in Dorset (Another actual Abberline ref - who was born in Dorset) and there we catch up with a seven year old Rebecca, living with her 'Father' and 'Daddy'. It's kind of the big reveal, hinted with some blue flashes of the eyes and the terrible war-ridden dreams, we discover the Headless Horseman is Rebecca's true father. Ichabod and Abberline do not know this and will continue to raise her as Abberline's daughter.

****

If you guys have any questions I didn't manage get to then hit me in the review box, and finally thanks for reading. :)

~ Adellade & EmiStaw13y


End file.
